UNIVERSITY  OF  CA  RIVERSIDE   LIBRARY 


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In  Memory  of 


Raymond  Best 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


ROMANTIC    GERMANY 


DANZir.-JOriiN  STRHHT  AND  ST.  MAI.V  ..  (_11L  KCII 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 


BY 


ROBERT  HAVEN  SCHAUFFLER 

AUTHOR  OF  "WHERE  SPEECH  ENDS" 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

HANS  HERRMANN,  ALFRED  SCHERRES, 

KARL  O' LYNCH  VON  TOWN,  GERTRUDE  WURMB, 

CHARLES  VETTER,  AND  OTTO  F.  PROBST 


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PUBLISHED  BY  THE  CENTURY  CO. 
NEW  YORK M  CM  X 


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Copyright,  1908,  1909,  by 
The  Century  Co. 

Published  October,  1909 


THE  DE  VINNE  PRESS 


TO 
MY  WIFE 


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3 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I  Danzig 3 

II  Berlin — the  City  of  the  Hohenzol- 

LERNS 40 

III  Potsdam — the  Playground  of  the 

HOHENZOLLERNS 100 

IV  Brunswick — the  Town  of  Tyll 

EULENSPIEGEL       ........     141 

V  GosLAR  in  the  Harz 184 

VI  Hildesheim  and  Fairyland      .     .     .     .198 

VII  Leipsic 236 

VIII  Meissen 262 

IX  Dresden  —  the  Florence  of  the  Elbe  .   274 
X  Munich  —  a  City  of  Good  Nature    .     .  300 

XI  Augsburg        »     .     .  343 

XII  The  City  of  Dreams 358 

Index 391 

vii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGB 

Danzig — Jopen  Street  and  St.  Mary's  Church     .  Frontispiece 

Painted  by  Alfred  Scherres. 

The  Crane  Gate 5 

Painted  by  Alfred  Scherres. 

The  Stock  Tower 16 

Painted  by  Alfred  Scherres. 

The  Poggenpfuhl,  with  St.  Peter's  Church  and  the  Rathaus 

Tower 22 

Painted  by  Alfred  Scherres. 

The  Mottlau  and  St.  John's  Church  (Winter  Evening)  .     .     30 

Painted  by  Alfred  Scherres. 

The  Fish  Market  and  "The  Swan" 35 

Painted  by  Alfred  Scherres. 
The  Brandenburg  Gate — the    Emperor  passes     ....     43 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

Fountain   of   Neptune,   with    Royal    Stables    and    Rathaus 

Tower 43 

Drawn  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

The  Old  Museum  (in  the  distance),  as  seen  from  the  base  of 

the  Monument  to  Emperor  William  I 51 

Drawn  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

The  Bridge  of  the  Elector  (Kurfiirsten-Briicke)  over  the 
Spree,  with  the  river-front  of  the  Royal  Castle  and 
the  Cathedral 55 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

ix 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

lAGE 

The  Cathedral  and  the  Frederick  Bridge,  from  the  Circus 

Busch  on  the  north  side  of  the  Spree 60 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 
The  Janowitz  Bridge  over  the  Spree 70 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

Palace  of  the  Reichstag,  fronting  the  Konigs  Platz     ...     75 
Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

The  Royal  Castle,  Charlottenburg,  as  seen  from  the 

Gardens 82 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

In  the  Tiergarten 82 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

Wertheim's  Store  in  the  Leipziger-Strasse 87 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

A  Glimpse  of  Old  Berlin  (Am  Krogl) 87 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

The   Landwehr  Canal  with  the   Potsdam   Bridge^   as  seen 

from  the  Konigin-Augusta-Strasse 97 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

The  Marble  Palace  on  the  Holy  Lake 104 

Drawn  by  Hans  Herrmann. 

Babelsberg 104 

Drawn  by  Hans  Herrmann. 

Old  Potsdam  on  the  Havel 107 

Painted  by  Hans  Herrmann. 

The  Town  Castle  and  the  "Petition  Linden" Ill 

Painted  by  Hans  Herrmann. 

The  Old   Market ^     ,     «...  118 

Painted  by  Hans  Herrmann. 

X 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACK 

Alley  in  Sans  Souci  Park 121 

Painted  by  Hans  Herrmann. 

The  Great  Fountain  in  Sans  Souci  Park,  with  the  Terraces 

and  Palace  in  the  background 126 

Painted  by  Hans  Herrmann. 

The  Statue  of  the  Archer  and  the  Old  Mill 131 

Drawn  by  Hans  Herrmann. 

View  of  the  Palace  of  Sans  Souci  from  the  Ruinenberg  .     .136 

Drawn  by  Hans  Herrmann. 

The  Ruinenberg,  the  ruins  built  by  Frederick  the  Great, 

north  of  Sans  Souci 136 

Drawn  by  Hans  Herrmann. 

The  Broad  Bridge 139 

Painted  by  Hans  Herrmann. 

The  Old-Town  Market 150 

Painted  by  Gertrude  Wurmb. 

Old  Houses  in  the  Reichen-Strasse 155 

Painted  by  Gertrude  Wurmb. 

An  Old  Courtyard  in  Brunswick l68 

Painted  by  Gertrude  Wurmb. 

Churcli  of  St.  Catherine  and  Henry  the  Lion's  Fountain  in 

the  Hagen   Markt 172 

Painted  by  Gertrude  Wurmb. 

The  Alte  Waage,  looking  toward  St.  Andrew's     .     .     .     .177 

Painted  by  Gertrude  Wurmb. 

The  front  of  St.  Andrew's,  as  seen  from  the  Weber-Strasse  181 

Painted  by  Gertrude  Wurmb. 

The  Kaiserhaus 188 

Painted  by  Alfred  Scherres. 

xi 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  Brusttuch 194 

Painted  by  Alfred  Scherres. 
Cathedral  Cloisters.     The  Thousand-year  Rose-bush  •     •     .   203 

Painted  by  Alfred  Scherres. 

The  Nave  of  St.  Michael's  Church 209 

Painted  by  Alfred  Scherres. 

"The  Old-German  House" 215 

Drawn  by  Alfred  Scherres. 

The  Rathaus  (left).  Temple  House  and  Wedekind  House  in 

the  Market-Place 221 

Painted  by  Alfred  Scherres. 

The  Pillar  House  in  the  Andreas-Platz 228 

Drawn  by  Alfred  Scherres. 

The  Eckemecker-Strasse 234 

Drawn  by  Alfred  Scherres, 

An  Old  House  in  the  Nikolai-Strasse 241 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

St.  Thomas's  from  the  Burg-Strasse    ........  241 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

The  Old  Rathaus 248 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

The  New  Rathaus  from  the  Promenade-Ring 255 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

On  the  Pleisse,  in  the  Naundorfchen  Quarter 259 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

Meissen  from  the  right  bank  of  the  Elbe 266 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

Ascent  to  the  Albrechtsburg 271 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

xii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Church  of  Our  Lady  from  the  Briihl  Terrace 278 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

Porcelain  Fair  in  the  New  Market,  the  Church  of  Our  Lady 

on  the  left 282 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

Court  Church  and  Castle  as  seen  from  the  Elbe     .     .     .  289 
Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

Dresden  from  the  left  bank  of  the  Elbe,  the  Queen  Carola 
Bridge  in  the  foreground,  the  old  Augustus  Bridge  in 
the   distance 296 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

Karl's  Place,looking  toward  Karl's  Gate, and  the  Church  of 

Our  Lady 303 

Painted  by  Charles  Vetter. 

Church  of  St.  John 311 

Drawn  by  Charles  Vetter. 

Court  of  the  Hofbrauhaus  (Royal  Brewery) 318 

Painted  by  Charles  Vetter. 

The  Maximilianeum  and  the  Isar 326 

Painted  by  Charles  Vetter. 

The  Church  of  St.  Anna 329 

Painted  by  Charles  Vetter. 

The  Gardens  of  Nymphenburg 336 

Painted  by  Charles  Vetter. 

The  New  Rathaus  in  the  middle  ground,  and  the  Towers  of 

the  Church  of  Our  Lady,  in  the  distance 339 

Painted  by  Charles  Vetter. 

The  North  Portal  of  the  Cathedral 3^5 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 
The  Ludwigs-Platz  and  the  Fountain  of  Augustus     .     .     .  350 

Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town. 

xiii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACE 

The  Jakober-Strasse,  with  the  Jakober-Thor  in  the  distance  355 
Painted  by  Karl  O'Lynch  von  Town 

The  Markus  Tower 360 

Etched  by  O.  F.  Probst. 

The  Rathaus  (City  Hall),  the  older  part  having  the  Tower  363 
Etched  by  O.  F.  Probst. 

Court  of  the  Apotheke 368 

Etched  by  O  F.  Probst. 
Portal   of   the    Old    Rathaus 371 

Etched  by  O.  F.  Probst. 

Fountain  in  the  Kapellen-Platz 378 

Etched  by  O.  F.  Probst. 

The   Klingen-Gate   Tower 381 

Etched  by  O.  F.  Probst. 

Am  Plonlein — Siebers  Gate  at  the  left  and  Cobolzeller  Gate 

at  the  right 385 

Etched  by  O.  F.Probst. 


XIV 


PREFACE 

In  the  surfeit  of  books  on  Germany  one  subject  has 
been  strangely  neglected,  and  that  is— the  land 
itself. 

Its  politics,  history,  sociology,  commerce,  and 
science  each  has  a  literature  of  its  own.  But  for  the 
latest  account  in  English  of  Germany's  most  repre- 
sentative and  picturesque  towns  one  must  turn  either 
to  the  guide-books  or  to  a  rare  volume  called  "Views 
Afoot,"  written  by  young  Bayard  Taylor  in  the  year 
1846. 

To  certain  readers  prejudiced  by  this  mislead- 
ing emphasis  it  may  come  as  a  pleasant  surprise 
to  learn  that  Germany  still  remains  the  land  of  the 
Nibelungenlied  and  of  Grimm's  Fairy  Tales,  of 
gnomes  and  giants,  storks  and  turreted  ring-walls, 
of  Gothic  liouses  in  rows,  and  the  glamour  of  medie- 
val courtyards.  But  so  it  is.  One  must  merely 
know  where  to  look  for  these  things. 

Many  of  the  towns,  like  Rothenburg,  Danzig,  and 

XV 


PREFACE 

Brunswick,  have  preserved  almost  intact  their  Old 
World  magic,  and  a  touch  of  real  romance  is  to  be 
found  as  well  in  almost  every  one  of  those  larger 
cities  which  we  have  been  taught  to  consider  hope- 
lessly prosaic.  There  is  a  peculiar  zest  in  discovering 
a  Krogl  or  an  Auerbach's  Keller  in  such  places  as 
Berlin  and  Leipsic,  which  so  many  travelers  visit  un- 
aware of  their  stores  of  hidden  treasures.  It  is 
much  as  though  one  should  chance  on  a  Diirer  en- 
graving fluttering  about  in  Broadway. 

In  composing  this  picture,  therefore,  a  few  of  the 
larger  cities  were  given  preference  over  rural  Ger- 
many with  its  more  obvious  charms.  Nuremberg 
and  the  Rhine  country  were  naturally  omitted  as 
they  had  recently  received  their  share  of  literary 
attention.  And,  for  the  rest,  out  of  an  embarrassing 
wealth  of  material,  a  group  of  the  choicest  was  with 
difficulty  chosen  from  among  the  smaller  towns  of 
pure  romance. 

But  places  are  so  much  like  people  that  whoever 
makes  a  book  of  cities  must  borrow  from  the  nov- 
elist's art.  The  present  writer  has  tried  to  select  from 
the  many  that  appealed  to  him  a  few  city-characters 
so  correlated  or  contrasted  as  to  bring  each  other  into 
relief.  He  has  endeavored  not  only  to  keep  in  mind 
their  interrelations,  but  also  to  reveal  the  personality 
of  each  one  as  reflected  in  the  character  of  its  build- 

xvi 


PREFACE 

ings,  streets,  squares,  and  courts,  and  of  the  country 
beyond  its  walls;  to  give  a  hint  of  its  history,  a  breath 
of  its  legend,  a  suggestion  of  the  quality  of  its  folk 
—their  customs  and  costumes,  their  beliefs,  attain- 
ments, and  humors — and  thus  to  lure  the  traveler 
from  his  hard-beaten  tracks  in  Italy  and  France  and 
England  to  the  fresh  regions  of  Romantic  Germany. 


xvii 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 


DANZIG 

BALTIC  fog  rolled  in  from  the  north  as 
my  train  rolled  in  from  the  south,  bring- 
ing an  ideal  hour  for  the  first  impressions 
of  a  city  so  full  of  Northern  melancholy, 
one  so  far  from  the  beaten  track  and  so 
romantic,  as  Danzig.  Down  a  street  full  of  gar- 
goyles and  curious  stone  platforms  there  loomed 
through  the  mist  a  monstrous  church,  crowned  with 
pinnacles  and  a  huge,  blunt  tower. 

A  gate  that  seemed  like  the  facade  of  an  Italian 
palace  pierced  by  a  triumphal  arch  opened  on  a  street 
of  fascinating  old  gables,  and  beyond  them  rose  a 
Rathaus  with  an  exquisite  steeple.  I  passed  between 
tall,  slim  palaces,  through  the  arches  of  a  water-gate, 
and  came  out  by  the  river,  to  fill  my  lungs  with  a 
sudden  draught  of  ozone  and  to  realize  that  I  was 
almost  in  the  presence  of  the  Baltic. 

3 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

An  alcove  of  the  Green  Bridge  proved  the  place  of 
places  in  which  to  modulate  one's  soul  down  from  the 
shrill  key  of  the  twentieth  century  to  the  deep,  mel- 
low tonality  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Toward  the  sea  swept  an  unbroken  line  of  roman- 
tic architecture,  narrow,  sharp-gabled  houses  inter- 
mingled with  towered  water-gates,  and,  last  of  all, 
the  profile  of  the  Krahn  Thor,  or  Crane  Gate,  Dan- 
zig's unique  landmark,  its  stories  projecting  one 
beyond  another  like  those  of  Hildesheim's  houses. 
On  the  island  formed  by  two  arms  of  the  Mottlau  the 
black  and  white  of  half-timbered  granaries  started 
strongly  out  of  the  mist. 

The  river  bristled  with  romantic  shipping;  and  as 
I  walked  the  quay,  I  caught,  between  gables,  the 
glow  of  the  lights  of  the  Lange  Markt  flushing 
the  fog  into  a  rosy  cloud  the  center  of  which  was  the 
steeple  of  the  Rathaus.  It  was  as  though  beauty  had 
been  given  an  aureole. 

I  turned  a  corner,  and  wandered  along  the  other 
shore  of  the  island,  past  a  deserted  waterway  and  a 
strange,  crumbling  tower  called  the  Milk-can  Gate, 
then  back  again  to  the  Green  Bridge.  The  darkness 
had  thickened  so  that  one  could  no  longer  distinguish 
the  separate  house-fronts,  but  all  the  lamps  along  the 
shore  had  their  soft  auras  of  mist,  and  the  surface  of 
the  water  was  one  delicate  shimmer,  with  strong  col- 

4 


THE    CRANE   GATE 


DANZIG 

uinns  of  light  at  regular  intervals,  among  which  the 
crimson  lantern  of  a  passing  boat  wrought  amazing 
effects. 

Where  had  I  known  such  an  evening  before?  As 
memory  wandered  idly  about  the  harbor  of  Liibeck, 
the  bridges  of  Nuremberg,  the  riversides  of  Wiirz- 
burg  and  Breslau,  I  was  flashed  in  a  trice  to  the 
"Siren  of  sea-cities,"  that 

floating  film  upon  the  wonder-fraught 
Ocean  of  dreams, 

and  it  came  to  me  with  a  glow  of  pleasure  that  this 
place  had  from  of  old  been  called  "The  Venice  of  the 
North." 

This,  then,  was  my  introduction  to  Danzig,  and  I 
never  think  of  it  without  seeing  streets  full  of  high, 
narrow  facades  melting  one  into  another,  gently 
curving  streets  alive  with  rich  reliefs,  statues  of 
blurred  worthies,  and  inquisitive  gargoyles,  the 
blunt,  mighty  Church  of  St.  Mary  looming  above 
them  like  a  mountain.  I  can  never  see  the  name  of 
Danzig  wdthout  beholding  a  dusky  waterway  lined 
with  medieval  structures  and — strange  juxtaposition 
— a  jewel  of  Reformation  art  with  its  rosy  aureole. 

But  it  is  delightful  to  remember  how,  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  the  city  drew  aside  her  veil  and 
stood  revealed  in  that  fresh  depth  of  coloring  found 

7 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

only  near  the  misty  seas  of  the  North  in  such  places 
as  Liibeck  and  Wisby,  Amsterdam  and  Bruges. 

Danzig  is  as  easy  to  compass  as  Dresden,  for  the 
most  interesting  and  beautiful  buildings  have 
crowded  themselves  about  the  Church  of  St.  Mary  as 
though  attracted  by  a  crag  of  lodestone.  The  an- 
cient moat  and  the  earthen  wall  must  have  had  a 
concentrative  as  well  as  decorative  effect  on  the  city, 
and  one  can  imagine  the  inward  pressure  bending 
the  longest  streets  into  their  present  graceful  curves. 
A  few  years  ago,  alas!  these  fortifications  were  de- 
stroyed by  the  highly  socialistic  process  of  shoveling 
the  mound  into  the  moat,  leaving  the  High  Gate 
shorn  of  the  walls  into  which  it  had  been  originally 
set  as  the  principal  entrance  to  Danzig. 

Seen  from  the  Hay  Market  outside,  where  inter- 
esting peasant  types  swarm  among  wains  of  green 
and  golden  hay,  the  High  Gate  composes  inevitably 
with  its  taller  neighbors,  the  Torture  Chamber  and 
the  Stock  Tower,  or  prison.  This,  like  the  Langgasser 
Gate,  is  more  a  triumphal  arch  than  a  city  portal. 
With  its  four  genially  modeled  gables,  the  Torture 
Chamber  recalls  the  Inquisition,  its  innocent-sound- 
ing name  and  its  outrageous  significance,  while  the 
Stock  Tower  compromises  between  the  religious 
aspiration  of  a  Gothic  church  and  the  self-conscious 
dignity  of  a  Renaissance  town  hall.    The  only  hint  of 

8 


DANZIG 

its  real  function  is  supplied  by  a  stone  jailer  with  a 
ring  of  keys,  who  leers  from  a  dormer  window  at  the 
passer-by  with  a  gesture  of  welcome.  The  narrow 
court  below,  through  which  prisoners  were  led  to  the 
red-hot  pincers  and  the  rack,  is  one  of  the  most 
soothing  nooks  in  Danzig,  with  its.  bracketed  arcades 
and  harmonious  gloom,  its  riot  of  old  lumber,  the 
myriad  tiny  roofs  that  start  out  from  the  tower,  and 
its  view,  framed  by  three  great  arches,  of  the  Lang- 
Gasse. 

I  did  not  find  the'Langgasser  Gate*  as  charming  as 
when  its  extravagance  had  been  softened  by  the  mist 
of  the  previous  evening ;  but  the  Rathaus  steeple  was 
even  more  glorious  in  the  full  morning  light,  and, 
seen  from  three  directions,  finished  the  street  vista 
superbly. 

A  Rathaus  interior  is  not  often  inspiring,  but  here 
were  carvings,  mosaics,  frescos,  and  furniture  of 
extraordinary  beauty,  tokens  of  the  Renaissance 
relationship  between  North  and  South.  And  it  was 
interesting  to  find  in  the  White  Chamber  a  modern 
historical  fresco  of  Danzig  delegates  presenting  a 
painting  of  their  city  to  the  Venetians  in  1601.  If 
this  old  canvas  should  come  to  light  to-day  in  some 
private  Italian  collection,  it  would  be  a  very  fair  por- 
trayal of  modern  Danzig.  For  in  the  room  sacred  to 
the  burgomaster  hangs  a  "Tribute  Money,"  painted 

9 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

in  1601,  with  the  Lange  Markt*  in  the  background 
virtually  as  it  appears  to-day,  a  neat  refutation  of 
those  pessimists  who  claim  that  romantic  Germany 
has  been  "restored"  to  death.  This  room  and  the 
Red  Chamber  rise  to  the  highest  levels  of  the  German 
Renaissance.  Between  them*  winds  a  unique  spiral 
staircase  of  carved  oak. 

Separated  from  the  Rathaus  by  a  narrow  street 
and  two  narrow  gables  is  that  most  interesting  build- 
ing, the  Artushof,  or  Court  of  Arthur.  This  was 
built  by  the  medieval"  Teutonic  Order  of  Knights 
as  a  patrician  club-house,  where  were  kept  alive  the 
traditions  of  King  Arthur  and  his  Round  Table. 
It  is  good  to  remember  how  the  Arthurian  le- 
gends penetrated  like  a  sweet  savor  into  these 
terrible  lands,  how  the  Knights  built  as  their  Cam- 
elot,  not  many  leagues  away,  the  Marienburg, 
which  remains  the  mightiest  of  German  castles; 
and  how,  when  Poland  and  Brandenburg  were 
fighting  for  the  prize  of  fourteenth-century  Danzig, 
the  Knights  came  to  her  rescue,  and  kept  her  under 
their  protection  until  she  grew  strong  and  beautiful. 

Their  first  thought  was  to  build  this  Court  of  King 
Arthur  where,  at  the  sound  of  a  bell,  the  patricians 
assembled  at  the  great  round  table  to  pledge  each 
other  in  the  famous  local  beer  they  called  Joppe,  and 
plan  for  the  good  of  the  city  while  the  town  pipers 

10 


DANZIG 

made  music.  Tournaments  were  sometimes  held  in 
the  Lange  IMarkt  outside.  The  gentlemen  rode  in 
the  order  of  their  seating  at  the  round  table.  The 
fairest  ladies  awarded  the  prizes;  and  all  danced  to- 
gether afterward  in  the  great  hall. 

To  look  at  the  Artushof  is  to  look  back  through 
the  centuries  to  the  two  brightest  periods  of  local  his- 
tory. The  three  Gothic  windows,  fit  for  the  clear- 
story of  a  cathedral,  typify  the  monumental  life  of 
the  Teutonic  Order  when  Danzig  was  building  the 
Rathaus  and  the  Stock  Tower,  the  Crane  Gate  and 
the  Church  of  St.  Mary;  while  the  portal  and  the 
gable  tell  of  the  proud  adventurers  who,  under  the 
protection  of  Poland,  were  leading  spirits  in  the 
Hanseatic  League,  and,  while  well-nigh  the  remotest 
of  Germans  from  the  scene  of  the  Italian  Renais- 
sance, were  yet  among  the  most  sensitive  to  its  in- 
fluence. 

The  hall  itself  would  have  befitted  King  Arthur 
and  his  knights.  Four  slender  shafts  branch  out 
into  rich  vaulting,  as  though  four  huge  palms  had 
been  petrified  by  the  magic  of  Merlin.  The  art  of 
the  Artushof  was  intended  rather  to  amuse  than  to 
edify,  and  the  decorations  seemed  like  so  many 
glorified  toys.  Models  of  the  ships  of  Hansa  days 
hovered  in  full  sail  overhead.  The  hugest  and  green- 
est of  Nuremberg  stoves  filled  one  corner,  a  piece  of 

11 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

pure  ornament  which  had  never  known  the  indignity 
of  fire.  The  paneled  walls  were  filled  with  curious 
wooden  statues  and  large  paintings.  I  noticed  a 
painted  Diana  about  to  transfix  a  stag,  which 
started  desperately  from  the  wall  in  high  relief. 
A  buck  with  real  hide  and  antlers  hearkened 
superciliously  to  the  lyre  of  a  painted  Orpheus.  But 
the  picture  that  pleased  me  most  was  called  "The 
Ship  of  the  Church."  To  my  unnautical  eye  it 
seemed  that  the  Madonna  and  two  popes  were  trav- 
eling first  cabin,  a  couple  of  military  saints  second, 
while  humble  old  Christopher  was  thrust  away  into 
the  steerage,  and  microscopic  laymen  were  doing  all 
the  work. 

Arthur's  Court  has  relaxed  its  ancient  rule  against 
"talking  shop."  In  fact,  it  has  become  the  city  ex- 
change. Yet  the  old  atmosphere  of  leisure  and  so- 
ciability still  hangs  about  it.  A  notice  states  that 
ladies  are  not  allowed  on  the  floor  during  the  hour  of 
business.  Having  spent  that  hour  in  Merlin's  hall, 
I  am  able  to  declare  that  if  the  brokers  of  New  York 
would  only  pattern  after  their  Danzig  colleagues, 
their  lives  would  gain  in  mellowness  what  they  might 
lose  in  brilliance.  Grain  seemed  the  sole  commodity 
on  the  market.  The  round  board  of  the  old  knights 
had  given  place  to  smaller  tables  filled  with  wooden 
bowls  of  it.     I  watched  the  brokers  chatting  and 

12 


DANZIG 

dreaming  away  their  little  hour,  sifting  the  kernels 
idly  through  their  fingers  in  a  delicious  dolce  far 
niente.  Suddenly  one  group  began  to  buzz  with  a 
note  of  American  animation.  "Now,"  thought  I, 
"they  are  getting  down  to  business."  But  as  I  drew 
near,  I  heard  the  most  excited  bidder  saying  some- 
thing about  "the  ideality  of  the  actual."  Suddenly 
as  I  stood  marveling,  and  wishing  that  the  author  of 
"The  Pit"  had  been  spared  to  view  that  paradoxical 
scene  with  me,  the  enigma  was  solved  in  a  flash.  It 
was  clear  that  the  grain  in  those  curious  bowls  had 
never  felt  the  contaminating  touch  of  modern  bulls 
and  bears,  of  thrashing-machines  or  modern  eleva- 
tors.   It  had  come  direct  from  those 

Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky, 
And  thro"*  the  field  the  road  loins  by 
To  many-towered  Camelot. 

In  this  atmosphere  of  medieval  romance  I  moved 
away,  and  during  my  sojourn  on  the  banks  of  the 
Vistula  I  inhaled  romance  with  every  breath.  For 
the  lure  of  Danzig  is  largely  the  lure  of  Gothic  and 
Renaissance  times;  and  what  is  worthier  to  succeed 
the  spirit  of  medieval  knighthood  than  the  spirit  of 
the  age  when  Europe  was  born  again? 

An  open  portal  invited  me  next  door  into  the  hall 
of  a  well-preserved  patrician  dwelling.     It  was  a 

13 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

typical  Renaissance  interior.  There  was  a  frieze  of 
the  quaint  biblical  tiles  made  in  Danzig  by  refugees 
from  Delft,  and  the  furniture,  the  brilliant  brasses, 
the  sculptured  doors  and  ceiling,  and  the  stairway 
that  wound  to  a  gallery  at  the  farther  end,  were 
blended  in  a  harmony  of  refinement  that  would  have 
cheapened  most  palace  halls. 

I  stepped  out  into  the  Lange  Markt  and  gazed  to 
my  heart's  content  on  the  long  lines  of  Renaissance 
palaces  for  which  Danzig  is  famous,  the  styles  of 
North  and  South  standing  side  by  side  in  friendly 
rivalry,  and  testifying  to  the  cosmopolitanism  of  that 
great  time.  In  the  evening  mist  along  the  water-side 
I  had  received — or  thought  I  had  received — vague 
impressions  of  Venice.  Now,  as  I  lingered  in  a  day- 
dream inside  the  Green  Gate,  the  city  still  gave 
forth  a  delicate  aroma  of  Italy;  but  the  scene  was 
shifted.  Perhaps  the  change  was  wrought  by  the 
suggestion  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici's  sculptured  head 
looking  down  from  one  of  the  house-fronts.  At  any 
rate,  as  I  enjoyed  the  Lange  Markt  through  half- 
closed  eyes,  the  three  great  arches  of  Arthur's  Court 
resolved  themselves  into  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi;  the 
solid,  angular  body  of  the  Rathaus  into  the  bulk  of 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio;  the  fountain  of  Neptune  ex- 
panded under  my  eyes ;  the  same  old  flock  of  wheel- 
ing pigeons  filled  the  air ;  and,  at  a  vague  glimpse  of 

14) 


Tlin    STt)CK    luWliR 


DANZIG 

a  blunt  and  mighty  tower  looming  in  the  distance,  I 
instinctively  murmui'ed  the  name  of  Giotto. 

In  leaving  Arthur's  Court  I  had  traversed  at  a 
step  the  most  significant  period  of  local  history.  The 
Teutonic  Order,  its  work  being  done,  fell  on  evil 
days,  became  the  "old  order,"  and,  jealous  of  the 
city's  growing  importance  in  the  Hanseatic  League, 
began  to  oppress  it.  Once  again  the  old  order 
yielded  place  to  the  new.  Danzig  cast  off  the  yoke  of 
the  Knights,  and  became  the  ward  of  Poland.  The 
people  had  long  been  under  Dutch  influence,  and 
now  their  contact  with  the  most  light-hearted  and 
luxurious  of  all  Slavic  races  prepared  them  for  the 
cosmopolitan  time  when  their  ships  should  bear  to 
Venice  the  grain  of  the  Northeast  and  bring  home  in 
return  the  glowing  spirit  of  the  Italian  Renaissance. 

Those  were  days  w^hen  the  wealth,  the  aristocracy, 
and  the  splendor  of  Danzig  were  proverbial.  The 
merchant  assumed  the  garments  and  the  manners  of 
princes.  In  his  Northern  isolation  he  decreed  his 
own  styles,  adopting  the  ruffs  of  Italy,  the  mantles 
of  Spain,  and  the  furs  of  Russia.  A  Parisian  trav- 
eler who  happened  upon  the  city  in  1635  wrote  in 
astonisliment  of  the  "ladies  who  walk  about  in  their 
furs  like  doctors  of  the  Sorbonne."  And  another 
complained,  a  few  years  later,  that  "you  '11  not  leave 
Danzig  with  a  whole  skin  if  you  don't  address  every 

17 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

sailor  and  small-sulphur-match-peddler  as  *^Iy 
Lord.'  " 

In  preserving  the  spirit  of  aristocratic  town  life  in 
the  Renaissance,  the  city  has  done  for  North  Ger- 
many what  Nuremberg  has  done  for  South  Germany. 
Nuremberg  built  its  houses  with  greater  picturesque- 
ness  and  variety;  Danzig,  with  greater  durability, 
with  more  unity  of  style  and  grouping;  and  it  has 
kept  out  modern  discords  more  successfully. 

The  townsman  ordered  his  dwelling  in  the  same 
lordly  spirit  in  which  he  ordered  his  clothes.  Brick 
would  do  for  his  church,  but  stone  was  none  too  good 
for  his  house.  And  these  rich  f a9ades  are  almost  as 
surprising  in  this  stoneless  country  as  fa9ades  of 
silver. 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  the  Northern  style 
with  the  Southern.  The  Italian  tends  to  horizontal 
lines,  graded  orders  of  pilasters,  simplicity  and  no- 
bility of  proportion,  a  classical  feeling  for  the  struc- 
tural. The  Dutch  tends  to  the  vertical,  is  fond  of 
lofty  rooms,  of  sharply  peaked  gables,  of  brick 
walls  sown  full  of  unstructural  stone  ornament. 
Legend  says  that  the  fax^ade  of  the  Steffen  House 
near  the  Artushof  was  brought  from  Italy.  It  is, 
at  any  rate,  one  of  the  purest  Italian  palaces  in 
Germany.  And  yet  it  does  not  quarrel  with  the 
Dutch  houses  near  it.     The  rivalry  is  friendly,  and 

18 


DANZIG 

lends  vivacity  to  the  street.  It  is  amusing  to  see  the 
coalition  of  North  and  South  that  resulted  when  both 
styles  simultaneously  laid  hold  of  the  same  building, 
as  at  Lang-Gasse  37,  and  in  the  English  House. 

Mottos  are  the  rule  over  the  doors,  and  they  are 
apt  to  be  laconic,  like  "Als  ( AUes)  in  Got"  or  "Glo- 
ria Deo  Soli."  That  is  the  way  the  townsmen  talk- 
laconically,  earnestly,  to  the  point.  Latin  is  very 
popular,  and  the  city's  motto,  "Nee  temere  nee  ti- 
mide,"  is  everywhere.    At  Topfer-Gasse  23  are  these 

lines : 

Hospes  pulsanti  tibi  se  mea  janua  pandet: 
Tu  tua  pulsanti  Pectora  pande  Deo. 

(Guest,  to  you  when  you  knock  this  my  portal  will  open : 
Do  you  open  your  heart  wide  to  the  summons  of  God. ) 

And  directly  opposite  the  tower  of  the  Church  of  St. 
Mary  a  pious  chisel  of  1558  cut  this  into  the  wall: 

Wir  bauen  hier  gi'osse  Hauser  und  feste, 
Und  sind  doch  fremde  Gaeste; 
Und  wo  wir  ewig  sollen  sein, 
Da  bauen  gar  wenig  ein. 

(On  palaces  we  waste  our  force 
Though  here  we  're  only  visitors ; 
But  where  we  shall  forever  be 
Too  few  build  we.) 

The  streets  are  so  rich  to-day  because,  as  a  Polish 
city,  Danzig  suffered  little  from  the  Thirty  Years' 

19 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

War,  and  because  it  was  wise  enough  to  build  its 
houses  of  fireproof  materials.  But  fireproof  ma- 
terials are  not  intimate,  friendly  things,  and  in  few 
other  places  do  the  houses  seem  so  aristocratic  and 
aloof  as  here.  Tall,  narrow,  richly  sculptured,  they 
shoot  upward  as  though  despising  the  democracy  of 
the  pavement. 

But  even  as  the  dwellings  of  exclusive  Augsburg 
are  frescoed  into  friendliness,  here  they  are  saved 
from  utter  misanthropy  by  a  unique  architectural 
feature.  For  in  certain  dreamy  streets  about  the 
Church  of  St.  Mary  are  the  remnants  of  Danzig's 
famous  Beischldge,  stone  porches  as  wide  as  the 
house  and  extending  far  out  upon  the  pavement,  to 
the  confusion  of  modern  traffic  and  to  the  joy  of 
seekers  after  the  picturesque.  The  steps  are  flanked 
with  carved  posts  or  with  huge  balls  of  Swedish 
granite.  The  balustrades  are  arabesques  of  iron,  or 
slabs  of  stone  decorated,  like  Roman  sarcophagi, 
with  mythological  reliefs  or  with  scenes  from  the 
Old  Testament  as  naive  as  Delft  tiles.  Jolly  gar- 
goyles still  grin  from  the  partition  ends  in  memory  of 
the  good  old  times  when  every  townsman  lounged  on 
his  own  Beisclilag,  or  his  neighbor's,  in  the  cool  of  the 
day,  receiving  his  tea  and  his  friends.  In  the  Jopen- 
Gasse  the  effect  of  these  platforms  of  irregular 
height  and  width  is  inimitably  genial,  and  the  Frau- 

20 


THE   POGGl-NlMllll.,  Willi    SI.  Ph  1 UKS  Clll  KCIl    AND   Till-    KATHAUS   TOWER 


DANZIG 

en-Gasse,  where  they  stretch  in  unbroken  Hnes,  undis- 
turbed by  the  practical  modern  world,  is  a  little  idyl 
that  would  be  quite  impossible  to  duplicate.  The 
Frauen-Gasse  is,  no  doubt,  an  absolute  novelty  to  the 
porchless  European,  but  the  American  is  somehow 
reminded  of  old  Philadelphia,  and  how  a  touch  of  art 
might  have  transfigured  the  poor  little  front  "stoop" 
at  home. 

In  laying  out  their  city,  the  people  developed  a 
truly  Latin  feeling  for  composition,  and  one  is  con- 
stantly delighted  with  Florentine  effects  of  vista. 
They  thought  of  their  streets  as  narratives  the  begin- 
ning of  which  must  be  interesting,  the  end,  thrilling. 
Thus  the  Lang-Gasse  begins  with  a  Gothic  prison 
and  an  elaborate  portal,  and  curves  gently  about,  to 
end  with  a  tower  that  is  like  "the  sound  of  a  great 
Amen."  Likewise  the  Lange  Markt  runs  from  the 
rhythmic  gables  and  arches  of  the  Green  Gate  to  the 
Rathaus;  and  the  picturesque  battlements  of  St. 
Peter's  send  the  Poggenpfuhl  toward  the  same  noble 
cadence.  Even  that  narrow  way  known  as  the 
Kater-Gasse  lies  between  St.  Peter's  and  the  triple 
front  of  Holy  Trinity,  while  the  Frauen-Gasse  leads 
from  a  water-gate  to  the  choir  of  the  Church  of  St. 
Mary,  with  its  high  windows,  its  pinnacles,  and  its 
crenelated  gables.  But  the  finest  street  vista  is  the 
view  down  the  Jopen-Gasse. 

a  23 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

At  the  head  of  the  street  hes  the  arsenal,  rioting 
in  all  the  happy  excesses  of  the  later  Flemish  Renais- 
sance. On  each  side  stretch  the  narrow,  aristocratic 
houses,  with  their  Beischldge;  and  from  among  the 
gables  at  the  end  of  the  street  rises  the  huge,  plain 
fa9ade  and  tower  of  the  Church  of  St.  Mary.  I  can 
never  look  at  that  pile,  half  fortress,  half  house  of 
God,  without  imagining  the  nave  full  of  worshipers 
ponderously  chanting  Luther's  tremendous  hynm, 
"Ein'  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott."  It  is  the  most 
German  thing  in  Danzig.  It  is  even  one  of  the  most 
German  things  in  Germany.  For  the  brick  Gothic 
of  the  Baltic  and  of  Silesia  was  evolved  so  indepen- 
dently of  foreign  influence  that  it  expresses  the  na- 
tional spirit  better  than  any  other  architecture. 

The  original  inhabitants  of  this  corner  of  the  world 
were,  in  all  likelihood,  the  Goths.  And  it  is  amusing 
to  imagine  their  surprise  if  they  could  have  foreseen 
that  a  French  style  would  be  named,  in  misplaced 
scorn,  after  them  and  that  their  home  would,  by  a 
freak  of  chance,  become  the  headquarters  of  the  only 
really  German  variety  of  that  style.  For  a  church 
like  St.  Mary's  is  hardly  Gothic  in  the  sense  that  the 
cathedrals  of  Cologne  and  Ratisbon  are;  but,  in  the 
sense  that  the  Goths  were  Germans,  it  is,  strictly 
speaking,  the  only  Gothic. 

The  Church  of  St.  Mary  is  the  largest  of  all  Prot- 

24 


DANZIG 

estant  churches,  equaling  Notre  Dame  In  area.  And 
it  reflects  the  character  of  its  builders  quite  as  vividly 
as  does  the  cathedral  of  Paris.  Its  castle-like  walls 
bespeak  the  military  instincts  of  the  North  German. 
The  huge,  plain  body  and  blunt  tower  symbolize  the 
downrightness,  the  sturdiness,  the  honest  largeness 
of  a  nature  whose  lack  of  polish  verges  on  the  coarse. 
The  fine  proportions  tell  of  his  poise.  The  obvious 
construction,  unobscured  by  detail,  reminds  one  that 
this  is  the  clear-headed  country  of  Schopenhauer  and 
of  Kant. 

Certain  traits  in  this  church  are  specially  charac- 
teristic of  the  land  of  the  Teutonic  Order,  such  as  a 
square  choir,  aisles  level  with  the  nave,  and  star 
vaulting  that  reminds  one  of  Arthur's  Court  and  the 
Marienburg. 

Here  as  everywhere  the  Baltic  architects  were  little 
concerned  to  ornament  the  interiors  of  their  churches. 
They  left  that  to  the  painter,  the  wood  sculptor,  the 
bronze  founder,  and  the  artist  in  wrought-iron.  War 
has  been  kind  to  St.  Mary's,  so  that  it  remains  a  veri- 
table treasure-house  of  ecclesiastical  furniture.  And 
a  dramatic  touch  is  given  by  one  of  Napoleon's  can- 
non-balls, which  for  a  century  has  projected  from  the 
vaulting— a  single,  sinister  eye  looking  greedily  down 
on  the  multitude  of  beautiful  and  fragile  things  below. 

The  world  is  indebted  to  the  cool,  unfanatical  Dan- 

25 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

zigers  for  saving  these  relics  of  popery  from  the  de- 
structive storms  of  the  Reformation,  and  one  recalls 
that  Schopenhauer  was  born  almost  within  the 
shadow  of  the  old  walls  and  must  have  had  some  of 
his  earliest  impressions  of  the  beautiful  from  the 
paintings  and  sculptures  there. 

In  no  other  German  church  have  I  found  a  more 
engaging  group  of  altarpieces.  An  added  charm 
came  with  the  feeling  that  the  spectacles  of  the  art 
professor  had  been  so  busy  gleaming  elsewhere  that 
they  had  left  important  things  undiscovered  here. 
Special  privilege  allowed  me  to  enter  the  Blind 
Chapel.  The  pavement  was  broken,  and  the  guide 
warned  me  at  every  moment  not  to  break  through 
into  the  graves  below.  The  chapel  was  well  named. 
It  has  no  windows ;  but  in  the  dim  light  I  made  out 
on  the  wings  of  an  altar  two  paintings  of  great 
beauty,  at  the  same  time  sweet  and  virile,  as  though 
Stephan  Lochner  and  Memling  had  been  fused.  The 
guide  murmured  vaguely  of  the  school  of  Kalkar, 
which  I  could  readily  associate  with  the  other  four 
panels.  But  only  a  great  master  could  have  created 
that  "St.  John"  and  that  "St.  Helena."  Whose  hand 
had  done  them?  For  a  moment  I  prayed  to  be  a 
German  art  professor,  with  time  and  erudition 
enough  and  spectacles  sufficiently  potent  to  solve  that 
enticing  problem. 

26 


DANZIG 

The  next  moment  my  prayer  had  a  perverse  an- 
swer; for  in  the  chapel  of  the  Rheinhold  Fraternity 
another  problem  altar  came  to  light.  "All  Flemish," 
said  the  guide.  And  in  the  tender,  delicious  humor 
and  sympathy  of  the  wooden  reliefs  from  the  life  of 
the  Virgin  I  could  feel  the  hand  of  Van  Wavere. 
But  whenever  I  gazed  at  the  saints  of  the  outer 
panels,  the  thought  of  a  great  master  persisted.  For 
a  layman  few  things  are  more  futile  or  more  exciting 
than  such  speculations.  But  I  am  sure  that  these 
neglected  masterpieces  will  come  into  their  own  when 
travelers  begin  to  realize  that  they  must  not  miss 
Danzig. 

The  church  teems  with  other  interesting  altars,  and 
the  chief  of  them  is  also  the  chief  work  of  art  in  the  city. 

Hans  Memling's  "Last  Judgment"  is  well  known 
in  reproduction,  but  sj^eech  is  like  an  under-exposed 
negative  when  it  tries  to  give  the  contrast  of  the 
Lord's  dull  scarlet  robe  with  the  liquid  bronze  armor 
of  JNIichael,  who  is  weighing  the  sons  of  men  in  a  pair 
of  scales.  Is  it  a  subtle  interpretation  of  Teutonic 
physical  ideals  that  the  short  of  weight  are  cast  into 
the  flaming  pit,  while  their  corpulent  brothers  are 
started  toward  heaven's  late-Gothic  portal?  At  any 
rate,  I  found  Low  Country  humor  in  the  curtsies  of 
the  blessed  to  that  high  official  St.  Peter,  their 
evident  reluctance  to  pose  thus  in  "the  altogether," 

27 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

and  their  eagerness  to  slip  into  their  heavenly  robes. 
This  altar  was  painted  in  Bruges  for  a  representative 
of  the  Medici,  and  was  destined  for  a  Florentine 
church.  It  had  actually  started  for  Italy  in  a  Bur- 
gundian  galley  when  it  was  captured  by  a  cruiser  of 
Danzig  and  presented  to  St.  Mary's,  where  it  stayed, 
despite  the  threats  and  wheedlings  of  Pope  Six- 
tus  IV. 

The  fabulous  vies  with  the  beautiful  in  the  atmo- 
sphere of  this  old  church.  It  is  said  that  the  maker 
of  the  mechanical  clock  was  blinded  by  the  burgo- 
master, so  that  he  might  not  make  another  for  the 
rival  city  of  Liibeck.  In  a  chapel  pavement  I  came 
upon  another  myih.  Here  a  child  was  buried  that 
struck  its  mother,  and  died  soon  after;  and  the  five 
small  holes  that  I  saw  in  the  stone  floor  were  made  by 
the  little  dead  fingers  reaching  up  from  the  grave  for 
forgiveness.  These  are  good  specimens  of  the  grue- 
someness  of  Baltic  legends.  But  the  guide  told  a 
gentler  one  in  All  Saints'  Chapel,  pointing  out  a 
stone  that  hung  by  a  cord : 

"Once  upon  a  time  a  monk  was  hurrying  home 
with  a  loaf  of  bread.  'Give  me  what  is  under  your 
robe,'  cried  a  beggar-woman.    *I  starve.' 

"  'It  is  only  a  stone  to  throw  at  the  dogs,'  returned 
the  monk.  And,  sure  enough,  when  he  came  to  look, 
the  loaf  had  turned  to  stone.    There  it  hangs." 

28 


.  1  11. All  AND  ST.  JOHN'S  CMUKCII.     iWlNTliR  liVl'NING) 


DANZIG 

Besides  its  altars  and  legends  St.  Mary's  Church 
owns  priceless  treasures  of  gold  and  silver,  old  ivories 
and  precious  stones.  It  has  wonderful  reliquaries 
and  manuscripts,  Byzantine  and  Romanesque  and 
Gothic  embroideries,  and  the  finest  collection  of 
church  vestments  in  Germany.  But  in  money  the 
church  is  so  poor  that  its  beautiful  things  are  fast 
being  ruined  for  lack  of  proper  attention.  It  is  a 
worse  case  of  poverty  and  neglect  than  that  of  the 
notorious  cathedral  at  Worms. 

Among  the  other  churches,  I  preferred  St.  Peter's, 
with  its  picturesque  tower;  and  St.  Catharine's,  with 
its  interesting  pulpit  and  font  and  its  noble  west 
front.  But  the  best  thing  about  St.  Catharine's  was 
a  little  stream  called  the  Radaune,  which  ran  under 
its  walls.  It  made  an  island  close  at  hand,  filled  with 
grass  and  flowers  and  a  Gothic  mill,  put  up  five  hun- 
dred years  ago  by  the  Teutonic  Order,  still  grinding, 
under  its  vast  expanse  of  tiles,  the  sort  of  grain  that 
brokers  dream  over  in  the  Artushof.  It  seemed  to 
me  the  most  patriarchal  of  buildings,  and  the  Na- 
poleonic cannon-ball  in  its  side  added  to  its  dignity. 
The  brook,  with  its  flowering  island  and  hoary  mill, 
made  a  picture  that  would  have  seemed  unreal  in  a 
city  less  romantic. 

I  spent  a  few  moments  with  the  woodbined  walls, 
the  font-railing,   and  the  perfect  vaulting  of   St. 

31 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

John's,  but  after  the  gloom  of  so  many  church-in- 
teriors, it  was  good  to  turn  a  while  from  the  streets, 
the  tall  gables  of  which  conspired  to  shut  out  the 
light. 

I  struck  east  through  the  ancient,  double-bastioned 
Crane  Gate,  and  came  out  suddenly  into  the  sunshine 
and  vivacious  life  of  the  water-front.  For  the  time  I 
had  forgotten  about  Danzig  history,  but  a  whistled 
melody  floating  up  from  the  river  brought  it  back 
with  a  rush.  For  I  realized  all  at  once  that  the 
tune  was  part  of  a  Chopin  polonaise,  and  that  this 
scene  had  once  been  for  two  centuries  the  port  of 
Poland. 

The  port  of  Poland!  The  words  suggested  the 
famous  "sea-coast  of  Bohemia."  And  I  began  to 
wonder  if  this  very  region  were  not  the  nearest  mun- 
dane approach  to  Shakspere's  enchanted  bourne. 
The  fancy  came  lightly  but  it  seemed  worthy  a  sec- 
ond thought.  Shakspere  had  borrowed  the  plot  and 
the  geography  of  "A  Winter's  Tale"  from  a  novel 
by  Greene,  published  only  nineteen  years  after  Dan- 
zig became  a  part  of  Poland.  The  port  had  long 
been  familiar  to  English  sailors  and  was  beginning 
then  to  trade  with  Sicily,  the  scene  of  the  story.  Now 
when  the  romantic  fact  became  known  that  the  Slavic 
people  of  Central  Europe  had  at  last  a  seaboard  of 
their  own,  what  would  be  more  natural  than  for  a 
novelist  to  use  the  region  as  a  background,  confusing 

82 


DANZIG 

two  sister  nations  that  are  to  this  day  often  con- 
fused ? 

Touched  by  the  glamour  of  such  speculations  it  is 
no  wonder  that  the  Long  Bridge  was  fascinating, 
even  in  the  clarity  of  noon,  with  only  a  suspicion  of 
shadow  on  it.  Unlike  other  bridges,  the  Long 
Bridge  runs  conservatively  along  the  river-bank,  con- 
tent to  have  its  long  melody  of  narrow,  peaked 
gables  rhytlimically  marked  by  the  massive,  recurrent 
chords  of  gate-towers.  Unamphibious,  it  keeps  the 
land  without  aspiring  to  the  granaries  on  the  other 
shore,  which  used  to  hold  four  million  bushels  of 
Polish  and  Silesian  grain  in  the  days  before  the  tariff 
destroyed  the  river  trade,  and  the  siege  of  1813  de- 
stroyed the  most  characteristic  of  the  buildings. 
Their  finest  remaining  example  is  the  "Gray  Goose," 
the  noble  proportions  of  which  speak  of  the  wealth 
and  taste  of  former  days.  The  granaries  still  bear 
such  old  names  as  Golden  Pelican,  Little  Ship, 
Whale,  JNIilkmaid,  and  Patriarch  Jacob. 

Although  the  old  town  will  never  regain  the 
prestige  of  the  time  when  it  was  one  of  the  chief  com- 
mercial centers  of  the  medieval  world,  yet  it  does  a 
thriving  business  to-day  in  Prussian  beet-sugar, 
English  coal,  American  oil,  and  Swedish  iron.  And 
it  is  still  famous  for  its  liqueurs,  one  of  which  inspired 
the  student  song  "Krambambuli."  The  German 
navy  was  born  in  the  shipyards  at  the  mouth  of  the 

33 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Mottlau;  and  of  late  beautiful  old  Danzig  has  been 
threatening  to  become  a  factory  town  and  send  her 
sweetness  and  romance  up  in  smoke.  For  she  is  al- 
ready manufacturing  steel,  glass,  chemicals,  ma- 
chines, and  weapons,  and  has  founded  a  polytechnic 
school. 

It  was  good  to  dismiss  such  thoughts  and  step  into 
a  rude  ferry-boat  that  showed  no  symptoms  of  twen- 
tieth-century progress.  I  paid  a  single  pfennig  to  a 
boy,  who  fished  a  chain  from  the  water,  hitched  him- 
self to  it,  and  walked  me  across  to  the  Bleihof ,  where 
waterways  lured  in  four  different  directions.  I  grew 
fond  of  that  ferry,  its  ragged  official,  its  rough,  sim- 
ple passengers,  and  fell  into  the  regular  habit  of 
being  walked  to  the  Bleihof  at  dusk  to  watch  through 
a  maze  of  masts  and  ropes  the  color  fading  from  the 
western  sky.  The  belfry  of  St.  John's  would  darken 
into  one  of  Rothenburg's  matchless  wall-towers.  One 
by  one  the  lights  of  the  opposite  shore  would  throw 
wavering  yellow  paths  across  to  beckon  me  back. 

A  little  below  the  Crane  Gate  squats  an  old,  round 
tower  called  the  "Swan,"  which  wears  a  sharp-peaked 
dunce-cap  of  red  tiles.  It  is  a  pathetic  reminder  of 
the  Teutonic  Order's  final  attempt  to  keep  Danzig 
German ;  for  when  the  citizens  seized  the  Crane  Gate 
and  fortified  it  against  them,  the  Knights  began  this 
round  tower  near  their  castle,  saying : 

34 


DANZIG 

Bauen  sie  den  Krahn, 

So  bauen  wir  den  Schwan. 

(And  if  they  build  the  Crane, 
Why,  we  shall  build  the  Swan.) 

The  castle  vanished  with  the  order,  and  the  Swan 
to-day  is  smothered  breast-high  in  small  houses,  the 
smallest  of  which  testifies  to  the  cosmopolitanism  of 
its  tarry  guests  by  the  sign  "Stadt  London" 

Near  the  Fish  Market,  where  the  little  Radaune 
rushes  with  a  loud  noise  into  the  Mottlau,  the  quay 
has  been  prettily  christened  "Am  Brausenden  Was- 
ser"  ("By  the  Roaring  Water") .  This  is  the  favor- 
ite haunt  of  longshoremen,  sailors,  and  the  famous 
Danzig  sack-carriers,  herculean  figures  with  their 
wide  blue  pantaloons  and  their  swathed  calves.  And 
beside  the  quay  belongs  a  flotilla  of  dusky  fishing- 
boats,  draped  with  many-colored  sail-awnings  and 
with  funnel-shaped  nets  that  hang  drying  from  the 
tips  of  the  masts. 

Before  parting  from  a  city  to  which  I  have  grown 
attached,  I  like  to  stand  on  one  of  its  high  places  and 
see  in  one.  sweeping  glance  what  it  is  that  I  am  leav- 
ing. It  is  like  gripping  a  friend's  hand  and  looking 
him  square  in  the  eye. 

Toil  and  twenty-five  pfennigs  was  the  price  of 
climbing  the  tower  of  the  Church  of  St.  Mary,  and  I 

37 


ROMANTIC  GERINIANY 

grew  grateful  that  it  had  remained  blunt  and  sturdy 
like  its  people.  But  I  should  have  been  willing  to 
toil  on  indefinitely;  for  I  had  seen  splendid  sights 
from  the  steeples  of  Ulm  and  Munich,  of  Mayence 
and  Strassburg,  but  never  in  Germany  a  panorama 
to  equal  this. 

A  little  to  the  south  the  exquisite  Rathaus  steeple 
was  a  fellow-aspirant,  and  one  could  almost  make 
out  the  gilt  features  of  its  royal  weathercock — Sigis- 
mund  of  Poland— as  the  wind  twirled  him  about,  and 
count  the  false  jewels  in  his  crown.  Beneath  rose 
the  pinnacled  back  of  the  Artushof  and  the  fine 
fa9ades  of  the  Lange  Markt,  where  I  had  dreamed  of 
Florence ;  beyond  them  a  long  line  of  granaries  gave 
proof  of  the  hidden  Mottlau.  Farther  away,  over  a 
sea  of  fantastic  roofs,  was  St.  Peter's  crenelated 
tower,  and  beyond  it  the  fields  flowed  on  to  the  dis- 
tant spire  of  St.  Albert's  and  rolled  upward  in  gentle 
undulations  to  a  ridge  that  swung  westward,  a  back- 
ground for  the  picturesque  Stock  Tower. 

Everywhere  was  a  crowd  of  entrancing  old  gables 
interspersed  with  the  dusky  red  of  well-weathered 
tiles.  Northward  was  spread  a  ruddy  expanse  of 
church  roofs,  and  behind  them  swung  in  noble  curves 
the  final  reaches  of  the  Vistula,  fresh  from  the  lands 
of  Krakow  and  Warsaw ;  while  beyond  the  pinnacles 
of  the  Church  of  St.  Mary  itself  and  the  tranquil 

38 


DANZIG 

streets  in  its  shadow,  curving  past  romantic  gate- 
towers  and  the  woodbined  walls  of  St.  John's,  the 
Mottlau  wound  to  join  the  Vistula  and  seek  the 
ocean,  whose  breakers  dashed  a  league  away,  a 
mighty  gulf  of  grayish  blue,  flecked  by  one  immacu- 
late sail. 


39 


II 


BERLIN-THE  CITY  OF  THE 
HOHENZOLLERNS 

ROM  any  account  of  the  romantic  cities 
of  Germany,  Berlin  must  not  be  ex- 
cluded, if  for  no  other  reason  than  be- 
cause it  is  so  unromantic.  It  is  the 
positive  degree  by  which  to  gage  such  a 
comparative  as  Munich,  such  a  superlative  as  Roth- 
enburg.  It  is  the  gray  sky  in  which  the  rainbow 
gleams  the  fresher.  And  its  own  spot  or  two  of 
real  color  breaks  this  background  with  a  vivid 
force  of  contrast  that  may  never  be  enjoyed  in  the 
cities  of  pure  romance. 

The  rare  Berlin  sun  bathed  Unter  den  Linden  and 
wrought  happy  effects  among  the  columns  of  the 
Brandenburg  Gate,  lovely  in  its  Attic  repose  against 
the  May  foliage  of  the  Tiergarten.  In  the  guard- 
house on  each  hand  the  guard  was  undergoing  in- 
spection. Each  private  came  stiffly  up  to  his  officer 
and  whirled  stiffly  about,  to  show  that  he  was  un- 

40 


BERLIN 

contaminated  by  the  great,  dirty  human  world 
beyond  the  pahngs.  But  just  as  a  spot  was  found 
on  an  unfortunate  leg,  a  trumpet  rang  out  from  the 
Friedens-AUee,  the  watch  before  the  gate  yelled 
something  in  a  superhuman  voice,  the  officers,  with 
protruding  eyes,  leaped  hysterically  through  the 
door,  and  the  soldiers  tumbled  after,  presenting 
arms  to  the  cloud  of  dust  in  the  wake  of  the  Em- 
peror's automobile,  which  had  whizzed,  at  the  Em- 
peror's speed  limit,  through  the  royal  entrance. 

The  soldiers* turned  dejectedly  back  to  inspection. 

"Swine-hounds!"  cried  a  pale  officer,  "why 
could  n't  you  do  that  quicker?"  And  even  the  by- 
standers eyed  them  with  reproach;  for  every  citizen 
in  the  crowd  had  been  a  soldier  himself,  and  knew 
that  he  could  have  managed  things  better. 

The  people  were  still  glowing  with  the  excite- 
ment and  pleasure  of  having  seen  the  Emperor,  I 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  familiar  face  as  it 
flashed  by — the  keen  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  into 
the  soul  of  every  one  of  us,  their  hint  of  coldness 
and  hardness  corrected  by  the  kindly  lines  about 
them;  the  straight,  frank  nose;  the  morose  mouth, 
artificially  enlivened  by  the  grin  of  upturned  mus- 
taches, like  the  enforced  jocularity  of  "The  Man 
Who  Laughs";  the  determined,  energetic,  military 
jaw.     This  typical  Hohenzollern  face,  coming  and 

41 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

going  like  an  apparition,  suddenly  lent  fresh  inter- 
est to  a  place  which  I  had  always  found  interesting. 
For,  as  I  drifted  down  "the  Lindens"  with  the 
crowd,  the  question  arose  whether  this  modern,  mili- 
tant city,  with  its  zest  in  commerce  and  diplomacy, 
in  art  and  science,  were  not  in  many  senses  an  em- 
bodiment of  the  HohenzoUern  character. 

A  Frenchman  once  declared  that  Prussia  was  born 
from  a  cannon-ball,  as  an  eagle  is  from  an  egg. 
And  indeed  it  would  be  hard  to  find  another  Ger- 
man city  with  so  few  old  buildings  as  Berlin  and  so 
little  atmosphere.  A  Strassburg  cathedral,  a  mar- 
ket-place out  of  Danzig,  a  row  of  Hildesheim  houses, 
or  a  Breslau  Rathaus,  would  be  as  out  of  place  here 
as  in  an  arsenal.  Most  of  the  Berlin  architecture  has 
as  much  color  as  a  squadron  of  battle-ships  in  war- 
paint, and  the  little  glamour  to  be  found  here  is 
almost  as  well  hidden  as  a  pearl  in  a  pile  of  oyster- 
shells.  The  city  fairly  bristles  with  weapons  and 
militancy.  Its  statues,  when  they  are  not  of  mounted 
warriors  with  swords,  or  of  standing  warriors  with 
spears,  tend  toward  such  subjects  as  Samson  plying 
the  jaw-bone  of  an  ass,  or  hounds  rending  a  stag. 
Painting,  too,  has  been  drafted  into  the  service,  and 
one  sees  so  many  military  pictures  in  the  public  build- 
ings that  even  the  absurd  portrait  by  Pesne  of  Fred- 
erick the  Great  in  the  Palais  is  a  relief.     For  there 

42 


BERLIN 

Frederick,  aged  three,  is  only  beating  a  drum,  al- 
though a  lance,  a  club,  and  what  looks  like  a  pile  of 
cannon-balls,  appear  in  the  background. 

But  sometimes,  when  surfeited  with  this  martial 
over-emphasis,  I  think  of  the  terrible  frontiers  of 
Prussia  and  how  well  she  has  guarded  them,  reflect- 
ing that,  if  she  had  beaten  her  swords  into  plow- 
shares, I  should  not  now  be  enjoying  the  gallery  or 
the  Tiergarten,  the  Opera  or  the  Krogl;  and  then 
I  grow  more  reconciled  to  Berlin's  eternal  bristling. 

Despite  its  many  repellent  qualities,  however, 
Berlin  has  always  had  for  me  on  every  return  an 
indefinable  thrill  in  store ;  indefinable  because  I  have 
never  been  able  to  account  for  its  strange  charm,  its 
emotional  appeal,  as  one  accounts  for  the  lure  of 
other  places.  Reason  declares  it  one  of  the  least 
charming  of  cities,  and  yet  we  are  enticed.  The 
truth  is  that  its  genius  loci^  like  its  reigning  ruler, 
is  not  to  be  gaged  by  ordinary  standards. 

Unter  den  Linden,  the  broadest  street  in  Europe 
save  one,  is  the  principal  stage  for  the  drama  of 
Berlin's  brilliant  and  cosmopolitan  life.  Dorothea's 
unluxuriant  linden-trees  extend  no  farther  than 
Ranch's  monument  to  Frederick  the  Great,  though 
Unter  den  Linden  goes  marching  on,  despite  the 
anomaly,  to  the  Castle  Bridge.  The  hero,  infor- 
mally sitting  his  charger  in  his  cocked  hat  and  with 

•  45 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

his  trusty  crooked  stick,  seems  to  dominate  the  situ- 
^ation  as  easily  as  in  the  stirring  days  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  "In  this  monument,"  Rodenberg 
once  said,  "pulsates  something  of  the  monstrous 
energy  of  the  Prussian  state."  And  the  Opern- 
Platz  is  in  character  with  its  leading  figure.  Car- 
lyle  wrote  of  him  that  "he  had  no  pleasure  in  dreams, 
in  party-colored  clouds  and  nothingnesses" ;  and  cer- 
tainly there  is  little  now  before  him  to  offend  his 
sensibilities.  There  is  nothing  party-colored  about 
this  architecture.  A  bronze  Frederick  sits  between 
a  plain  brown  university  and  a  plain  brown  palace; 
a  severe  brown  Opera,  embellished  with  fire-escapes, 
confronts  an  austere  gray  guard-house;  while  far- 
ther along,  an  angry  arsenal  bullies  two  sad-looking 
palaces,  likewise  in  brown,  all  solidly  built  and  with 
no  unseemly  levity. 

One  imagines  the  first  emperor  with  his  grand- 
son in  the  famous  corner  window  of  his  Palais,  where 
he  always  stood  to  see  the  guard  relieved,  watching 
with  sympathetic  eyes  the  students  (whom  he  was 
fond  of  calling  his  "soldiers  of  learning")  in  the 
university  across  the  way,  that  souvenir  of  Prussia's 
darkest  hour,  when,  in  1809,  she  had  lost  to  France 
everything  west  of  the  Elbe.  In  that  crisis  a  hand- 
ful of  scholars  approached  Frederick  William  III 
with  their  project,  and  the  enthusiastic  king  ex- 

4)6 


BERLIN 

claimed:  "That  is  good!  that  is  fine!  Our  land 
must  make  up  in  spiritual  what  it  has  lost  in  physical 
strength."  In  this  spirit  such  men  as  Fichte  and 
Schleiermacher,  aided  by  Wilhelm  von  Humboldt, 
founded  Berlin  University.  And  it  is  no  wonder 
that,  with  a  truly  HohenzoUern  rapidity  and  acquisi- 
tiveness, it  has  within  a  century  gained  9000  students 
and  500  teachers,  and  gathered  such  stars  to  its 
crown  as  Mommsen,  Curtius,  Helmholtz,  Ranke, 
and  Hegel.  Its  school  of  medicine  is  particularly 
strong,  and  attracts  the  young  doctors  of  all  nations, 
especially  Americans.  For  Germany  leads  the 
world  in  theoretical,  America  in  applied,  medicine. 
But,  in  spite  of  our  practical  bent,  Berlin  possesses 
in  the  Virchow  Hospital  the  most  perfect  institution 
of  its  kind,  a  group  of  thirty  buildings  built  on  the 
new  pavilion  system,  which  puts  our  leading  hos- 
pitals to  shame. 

There  is  one  local  institution,  though,  untouched 
as  yet  by  the  imperial  love  of  progress.  I  remember 
once  crossing  the  North  Sea  with  a  Berlin  student, 
and  we  fell  to  comparing  our  respective  universities. 

"There  is,  anyway,  one  point,"  he  argued,  "where 
we  go  far  ahead  of  you.  I  talk  of  our  library  sys- 
tem. Yours  is  not  to  be  mentioned, — how  say  you? 
— yours  is  not  to  call  in  the  same  expression  with 
ours  for  celerity.     Why,  if  you  will  order  a  book 

47 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

in  the  morning  at  eight,  you  may  not  infrequently 
obtain  it  before  three  in  the  same  afternoon!"  This 
claim  I  afterward  verified.  But  American  methods 
will  prevail  in  the  new  building  which  is  being  built 
next  to  the  university.  The  old  library,,  with  its 
spirited,  curved  f  a9ade,  is  one  of  the  last  monuments 
to  the  baroque  spirit  in  Germany. 

The  opera-house  was  built  by  Frederick  the  Great 
as  the  beginning  of  a  huge  "Forum  Fridericanum," 
a  Prussian  counterpart  to  the  gigantic  Saxon  scheme 
of  which  the  Zwinger  Palace  at  Dresden  was  in- 
tended to  be  the  mere  foreshadowing.  It  is  the  home 
of  that  art  for  which  the  Hohenzollerns  have  always 
shown  the  most  understanding,  one  nowhere  else  so 
fully  represented  as  at  Berlin — the  national  art  of 
music.  The  Opera,  the  orchestra  of  which  ranks 
second  in  the  land,  divides  with  the  Royal  Theater 
an  annual  subsidy  of  $225,000.  Richard  Strauss 
is  one  of  the  conductors,  but  even  he  has  less  author- 
ity there  than  the  Emperor,  who  supervises  in  per- 
son the  slightest  details  of  execution  and  setting.  A 
larger  opera-house  is  soon  to  be  built  on  the  Konigs- 
Platz. 

Berlin  has  an  embarrassment  of  musical  riches. 
Besides  the  excellent  performances  of  the  Philhar- 
monic Orchestra,  which  may  be  heard  for  ten  cents, 
the   city  averages   twenty   classical  concerts   daily 

48 


BERLIN 

during  the  season.  There  one  may  hear  rare  works, 
seldom  given  elsewhere,  and  the  breathless  audiences 
are  filled  with  an  almost  religious  fen^or  of  atten- 
tion. They  realize  what  we  do  not,  that  the  hearer 
is  almost  as  important  a  factor  in  the  making  of 
music  as  the  performer. 

The  Zeughaus,  or  military  museum,  is  the  most 
Prussian  thing  in  Prussia,  and  some  one  has  said 
that  this  building  is  to  Berlin  what  its  cathedral  is 
to  an  ordinary  city.  The  facade  is  alive  with  spirited 
sculpture,  and  Schliiter  modeled  the  beautiful  masks 
of  dying  warriors  inside.  Here  is  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  and  complete  collections  of  armor  and 
weapons  in  the  world,  while  the  best  human  touch  is 
given  by  Napoleon's  pathetic  little  old  hat,  guarded 
by  sixty-eight  wax  soldiers,  dressed  in  every  Prus- 
sian uniform  since  the  time  of  the  Great  Elector. 
The  Hall  of  Fame  is  filled  with  bronze  busts  of  Prus- 
sian men  of  valor,  and  with  appropriate  paintings 
of  better  quality  than  the  usual  battle-picture.  The 
ruling  passion  of  the  Hohenzollern  rages  here  ad 
libitum,  and  the  impression  is  not  weakened  after 
crossing  the  Castle  Bridge,  which  the  Berliners  call 
"The  Bridge  of  Dolls,"  after  its  eight  marble  groups 
illustrating  the  education  of  the  warrior, — poor 
things,  all  of  them,— cold  imitations  of  the  cold 
Thorwaldsen. 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

The  atmosphere  of  the  Lustgarten  is  profoundly 
martial.  In  the  center  towers  Frederick  William 
III  on  his  war-charger,  gazing  toward  the  castle, 
whereon  stand  figures  of  the  late  Emperor  Fred- 
erick III  as  Mars,  and  of  his  father  William  I  as 
Jupiter.  Beneath  their  glances*  five  armed  princes 
of  Orange  guard  the  terrace,  and  two  men  in  verdi- 
gris struggle  with  wild  horses  at  the  portal.  In  a 
lamentable  position  on  the  bank  of  the  Spree  looms 
Begas's  monument  to  William  I,  the  foremost  among 
Berlin's  military  sculptures.  Four  delirious  lions, 
crouching  on  heaps  of  arms,  snarl  at  the  four  cor- 
ners ;  colossal  figures  intended  to  represent  War  and 
Peace  sprawl  unhappily  on  the  side  steps,  and  the 
whole  is  surmounted  by  a  group  which  must  have 
suggested  to  Saint-Gaudens  the  idea  for  his  Sher- 
man monument.  The  helmeted  hero  of  Sedan  is 
led  by  a  Victory  whose  two  sisters  drive  quadrigas 
on  the  colonnade  at  each  side — all  in  all  an  impress- 
ive and  ferocious  sight.  Northward  lies  the  cold, 
hard,  hideous  cathedral.  Near  it,  topping  Schinkel's 
noble  Old  Museum,  more  wild  horses  struggle  with 
wild  men,  while,  beside  the  beautiful,  serene  flight 
of  steps,  an  Amazon  and  a  warrior,  both  mounted, 
are  forever  trying  to  transfix  a  tiger  and  a  lion,  the 
latter  by  a  sculptor  of  the  savage  name  of  Wolff. 
And  finally,  looking  down  the  vista  of  Unter  den 

50 


BERLIN 

Linden,  that  reach  so  characteristic  of  the  far-see- 
ing, purposeful  Hohenzollerns,  the  clear-sighted 
catch  a  glimpse,  past  Frederick  the  Fighter,  of  a 
third  quadriga  and  a  fourth  Victory,  sublime  on  the 
Brandenburg  Gate. 

Save  for  some  dim  frescos  in  the  porch  of  the 
Old  JMuseum  and  for  the  green  cupola  of  the  castle, 
the  Lustgarten  suffers  from  Berlin's  chronic  dearth 
of  color — a  dearth  that  has  driven  the  makers  of 
cheap  postal-cards  to  the  desperate  expedient  of 
printing  the  black  dome  of  the  cathedral  red  and 
the  gray  steeple  of  the  Memorial  Church  sky- 
blue. 

The  Hohenzollern  fondness  for  mottos  finds  vent 
on  the  cathedral  and  the  castle,  while  the  statues  of 
the  princes  of  Orange  and  counts  of  Nassau  stand 
there  dauntless  and  beautiful,  like  true  Prince- 
tonians,  over  such  sentiments  as  "Nunc  aut  num- 
quam,"  "Patriae  patrique,"  and  "Ssevis  tranquillus 
in  undis."  These  latest  additions  to  Berlin's  bronze 
elect  are  well  conceived  and  executed,  with  more  of 
mellowness  and  atmosphere  than  one  meets  with  in 
earlier  Berlin  sculpture.  They  were  evidently  mod- 
eled with  the  inner  eye  turned  toward  King  Arthur 
and  his  blessed  iron  company  at  Innsbruck. 

The  finest  views  of  the  castle  are  from  the  Burg- 
Strasse,  across  the  river.     Seen  from  a  point  oppo- 

53 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

site  the  cathedral,  the  northern  facade  of  the 
venerable  Hohenzollern  home  assumes  an  austere 
but  very  real  beauty,  lightened  by  the  grace  of  the 
ivy-clad  Apotheke,  with  its  oriel.  It  takes  time  to 
appreciate  this  building,  but  it  wears  like  a  true- 
hearted,  steadfast  Berliner  after  you  have  learned 
to  discount  his  failings.  Sometimes  the  plain,  east- 
ern facade  is  very  friendly  beyond  the  throng  of 
barges  along  its  water-front;  and  even  the  royal 
stables  are  a  goodly  sight  from  here  on  a  sunny 
morning,  topped  by  the  Gothic  spire  of  the  Church 
of  St.  Peter. 

But  best  of  all  is  the  view  in  June  from  'the  Elec- 
tor's Bridge,  with  the  bit  of  tree-embowered  garden 
at  the  southeastern  corner  of  the  castle,  the  vines 
clothing  the  ancient  walls  to  the  very  top,  and  trail- 
ing over  the  embankment  into  the  water;  with  the 
monumental  columns  and  portals  of  the  southern 
fa9ade,  and  the  green  cupola  coming  out  slightly 
above  the  mass  with  an  inimitable  effect,  while  Nep- 
tune's Fountain  in  the  square  throws  rainbow  mist 
about  his  glistening  water-folk,  and  the  Great  Elec- 
tor in  bronze  rides  with  a  true  Roman  nobility  on 
his  bridge,  coolly  satisfied  with  the  outlook.  This  is 
Berlin's  greatest  monument,  and  it  seems  almost  a 
part  of  the  castle  itself,  for  both  were  largely  the 
creations   of   the   greatest   of   Prussian   architects, 

54 


>      ? 


>    H 


BERLIN 

Andreas  Schliiter,  and  both  are  among  the  finest 
examples  of  baroque  art  in  Prussia. 

There  is  a  suspicion  of  legend  hanging  about  this 
bridge,  for  the  story  goes  that  Schliiter,  on  discover- 
ing that  he  had  forgotten  to  fit  the  Great  Elector's 
horse  with  shoes,  jumped  into  the  Spree  and  was 
seen  no  more.  But,  in  spite  of  this  defect  in  equip- 
ment, old  Frederick  William,  every  New  Year's 
Eve,  jumps  his  horse  over  the  heads  of  the  fettered 
slaves  and  rides  as  light  as  a  shadow  through  the 
city  to  find  how  the  seed  of  his  sowing  has  thriven 
and  how  the  young  HohenzoUerns  have  been  up- 
holding the  family  record. 

In  1750,  when  Frederick  the  Great  had  finished 
his  new  cathedral,  the  bones  of  all  his  ancestors  since 
Joachim  II  had  to  be  shifted  from  the  ancient  vaults 
to  the  new.  "Frederick,  with  some  attendants,  wit- 
nessed the  operation,"  writes  the  historian  Preuss. 
"When  the  Great  Elector's  coffin  came,  he  made 
them  open  it;  gazed  for  some  time  in  silence  on  the 
features,  which  were  perfectly  recognizable,  laid  his 
hand  on  the  long-dead  hand,  and  said,  'Messieurs, 
celui-ci  a  fait  de  grandes  choses/  "  How  like  the 
famous  scene  at  Potsdam  a  few  decades  later,  when 
Napoleon  stood  by  Frederick's  leaden  coffin,  say- 
ing, "If  this  one  were  alive,  I  should  not  now  be 
here." 

57 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

The  castle  was  begun  in  1443  by  Frederick  Iron- 
tooth,  the  second  HohenzoUern  elector,  but  the  old- 
est remaining  part,  the  round  tower  near  the  Elec- 
tor's Bridge,  called  "The  Green  Hat,"  was  built  by 
Joachim  II  in  1538. 

The  interior  is  not  enlivening.  You  ascend  a 
long,  inclined  plane  of  brick  called  the  Wendelstein, 
and  shift  into  felt  overshoes,  wherein  you  shuffle 
through  an  interminable  line  of  flashy  festal  cham- 
bers. There  is  the  Red  Eagle  Room,  with  its 
wooden  replicas  of  the  silver  melted  up  by  Frederick 
the  Great  in  his  dire  need ;  the  Knights'  Room,  with 
a  chandelier  beneath  which  Luther  stood  at  the  Diet 
of  Worms;  the  Room  of  the  Black  Eagle;  the  Room 
of  Red  Velvet;  the  White  Hall;  and  so  forth.  The 
only  unoccasional  paintings  in  evidence  are  a  few 
third-rate  Italians  outside  the  White  Hall,  and 
these,  as  the  guide  declared,  are  soon  to  come  down. 
The  only  old  masters  are  two  Vandykes,  which  look 
quite  appalled  in  the  barbarous  wastes  of  the  pic- 
ture-gallery. And  one  longs  for  a  glimpse  of  the 
famous  Watteaus,  hidden  away  in  the  Emperor's 
private  suite. 

There  are  other  views  from  the  Burg-Strasse 
almost  as  engaging  as  those  of  the  castle.  It  is  good 
to  stand  near  the  William  Bridge  and  see,  beyond 
the  flapping  green  eagles  of  the  Frederick  Bridge, 

58 


Till:   CA'l  III-liKAl.   A.Mi    llll,    IKI  KI'KUK    IMUIM.I     I  KmM     llll- 
•NOKTH  SIDE  Ol'  THE  SPREE 


iKHS  i;rs(  11  (IN  iiiE 


BERLIN 

the  National  Gallery  riding  high  above  its  foliage, 
which  allows  a  glimpse  of  the  impressive  double 
stairway  and  the  warm  browns  of  the  Corinthian 
faQade. 

It  is  a  startling  adventure  to  find  a  barely  toler- 
able view  of  the  cathedral,  a  building  which,  as 
Liibke  declares,  "looks  as  if  it  had  been  taken  from 
a  box  of  toys."  This  welcome  experience  did  not 
come  to  me  until  my  sixth  visit  to  Berlin,  and  even 
then  I  was  guided  by  a  painting  of  Alfred  Scherres, 
seen  on  the  way.  But  the  painter  had  undeniably 
found  a  spot  beside  the  Circus  Busch  where  it  is 
pleasant  to  linger  at  twilight  or  on  a  misty  autumn 
morning. 

In  the  foreground,  on  a  flotilla  of  roofed-over 
barges,  are  the  lively  colors  and  sounds  and  the 
sweet  odors  of  a  pear  market.  Across  the  dusky, 
sparkling  Spree  the  tree-fringed  colonnade  of  the 
National  Gallery  leads  the  eye  to  the  rising  and  fall- 
ing rhythm  of  the  Frederick  Bridge,  whereunder  the 
river  winds,  gray  and  gleaming,  past  the  vivacious 
cornice  of  the  stock  exchange.  And  above  the  flow- 
ing lines  of  the  bridge  rises,  with  its  repulsive  details 
mercifully  hidden  by  the  mist,  the  huge,  dark  dome 
of  the  cathedral,  really  noble  and  impressive  for 
once,  and  composing  finely  with  the  cupola  of  the 
castle. 

61 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

To  remember  that  the  cathedral  cost  almost 
$3,000,000  and  covers  a  larger  area  than  Cologne 
minster,  and  then  to  look  at  the  cathedral,  is  an 
experience  that  makes  the  heart  sick.  True,  it  ex- 
presses in  a  way  the  present  character  of  Berlin — its 
cold  asperity  and  self-consciousness.  But  one  won- 
ders whether  a  beautiful  church  in  its  place  might 
not  be  doing  more  to  make  the  city  human  and  lov- 
able. It  was  erected  between  1894  and  1906  to  take 
the  place  of  the  former  pitiful  little  cathedral,  which 
possessed  no  architectural  distinction,  and  was  sadly 
dwarfed  by  the  majesty  of  the  castle  on  the  one  hand 
and  of  the  Old  Museum  on  the  other.  It  is  sup- 
posed to  express  the  present  Emperor's  architectural 
taste;  for  it  is  said  that  he  made  many  changes  in 
the  plans,  and  signed  them  "William,  architect." 

One  turns  away  with  relief  to  watch  the  children 
playing  about  the  great  red  granite  basin  in  the 
Lustgarten,  and  to  marvel  at  the  costumes  of  the 
Spreewald  nurses— the  short,  scarlet,  balloon  skirt 
overspread  by  a  snowy  apron.  There  is  a  mere  pre- 
tense of  sleeves,  and  the  gay  neck-cloth  is  set  off  by 
a  brave,  triangular  spread  of  linen  head-dress, 
fringed  five  inches  deep. 

The  museums  of  Berlin  fortunately  show  few 
traces  of  the  influence  of  the  Hohenzollern  taste  in 
art.     For  they  have  as  their  Director- General  Dr. 

62 


BERLIN 

Wilhelm  Bode,  whose  fine  feeling  and  determined 
will  have  here  been  almost  supreme.  Thirty  years 
ago  they  were  poverty-stricken,  but  the  genius  of 
Bode  has  made  them  one  of  Berlin's  chief  glories; 
and  that  is  true  not  only  of  the  art  collections,  but 
also  of  the  Agricultural  Museum,  the  Arts  and 
Crafts,  the  Costume,  Ethnological,  Hohenzollern, 
Marine,  Mining,  Natural  History,  Postal,  and  Pro- 
vincial museums. 

The  statues  of  the  Old  Museum  consist  chiefly  of 
late  Roman  sculpture  of  no  special  importance,  but 
"The  Praying  Boy,"  an  early  Greek  bronze,  would 
be  a  worthy  companion  to  the  most  famous  statues 
in  Munich's  Glyptothek.  Here  are  superb  collec- 
tions of  antique  gold  and  silver,  of  Greek  and 
Roman  gems  and  cameos,  vases,  and  terra-cotta 
statuettes. 

A  passage  leads  across  the  street  to  the  New  Mu- 
seum, a  homely  building  devoted  mainly  to  Egyptian 
art  and  plaster  casts.  But  its  print  collection  is 
the  richest  and  best  arranged  in  Germany,  and  par- 
ticularly strong  in  the  works  of  Diirer  and  Rem- 
brandt. Best  of  all  is  the  set  of  Botticelli's  illustra- 
tions to  the  "Divina  Commedia,"  so  vividly  described 
by  Arthur  Symons  in  "Cities  of  Italy." 

In  the  National  Gallery,  Hohenzollern  influence 
becomes  apparent  in  the  prominence  of  huge  mili- 

63 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

tary  scenes  and  royal  portraits.  But,  with  all  its 
faults,  the  collection  ranks  next  to  those  of  Munich 
and  Dresden  as  an  exhibit  of  modern  German  paint- 
ing. It  is  rich  in  Menzel  and  Bocklin,  in  Defregger 
and  Lenbach  and  Marees;  while,  of  the  younger 
generation,  Kuehl,  Von  Uhde,  Leibl,  Hans  Herr- 
mann, Skarbina,  and  Liebermann  are  well  repre- 
sented. The  sculpture  stands  far  behind  the  paint- 
ing, but  Max  Klinger's  "Amphitrite"  is  a  work  in 
colored  marbles  that  takes  rank  with  his  Beethoven 
in  Leipsic. 

It  was  an  odd  coincidence  that  the  altar  of  Perga- 
mon  should  have  been  unearthed  by  a  German  and 
sent  to  found  a  Pergamon  Museum  in  warlike  Ber- 
lin. For  the  frieze  depicting  the  battle  of  the  gods 
and  the  giants  is  not  only  our  most  nearly  complete 
relic  of  Greek  sculpture,  a  worthy  mate  to  the  Elgin 
Marbles,  but  it  is  also  our  fiercest  piece  of  ancient 
plastic  fighting. 

The  Kaiser  Friedrich  Museum  should  rather  be 
called  the  Bode  Museum,  for  it  is  a  monument  to 
the  genius  of  its  director.  A  few  weeks  before  the 
day  set  by  the  Emperor  for  its  official  opening,  Dr. 
Bode  was  taken  seriously  ill.  But  from  his  bed, 
with  the  aid  of  photographs  and  water-colors,  he 
actually  directed  the  furnishing  and  decoration  of 
the  entire  building,  the  hanging  of  the  pictures,  and 

64 


BERLIN 

the  arrangement  of  the  sculpture,  finishing  his  task 
within  the  time  appointed.  It  is  due  to  him  that 
the  gallery  ranks  third  in  Germany  and  that  it  is  the 
first  in  equipment  and  arrangement.  Indeed,  among 
the  collections  of  the  world  it  is  second  only  to  Lon- 
don's National  Gallery  in  the  balance  and  complete- 
ness of  all  the  schools  of  painting.  B ode's  idea  of 
placing  Renaissance  sculpture  among  the  pictures 
is  brilliant,  and  is  being  wisely  adopted  in  other 
galleries. 

Space  allows  a  mere  word  of  description.  The 
most  important  works  of  the  old  Netherlandish 
schools  are  the  famous  Ghent  altarpiece  by  the  Van 
Eycks,  and  the  "Nativity"  by  Van  der  Goes;  of 
the  old  German  school,  Holbein's  portrait  of 
Gisze  and  Diirer's  of  Holzschuher,  two  of  the 
best  known  of  all  German  pictures.  With  their 
Fra  Angelicos,  Botticellis,  Signorellis,  Masaccios, 
and  Da  Forlis  the  elder  Italian  schools  are  more 
complete  than  the  Renaissance,  and  more  character- 
istic of  the  serious,  scholarly  Prussian  collectors; 
but  the  Renaissance  boasts  four  Raphaels,  the  "For- 
narina"  of  Del  Piombo,  a  masterpiece  of  Del  Sarto, 
Leonardo's  "Ascension,"  and  marvelous  portraits 
by  Giorgione  and  Titian.  The  later  Netherlandish 
schools  are  specially  rich  in  Rubens  and  Vandyke. 
Here  are  the  largest  collections  of  Rembrandt  and 

65 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Hals  outside  of  St.  Petersburg  and  Haarlem ;  while, 
among  the  Spanish  canvases,  are  Murillo's  most  sat- 
isfying religious  work  and  a  famous  Velasquez  por- 
trait. The  collection  of  medieval  and  Renaissance 
sculpture  is  the  most  complete  of  its  kind  in  the 
country. 

This  gallery  stands  at  the  head  of  the  Spree 
Island,  and  on  two  of  its  three  sides  the  windows 
give  on  the  water.  There  is  a  peculiar  charm  in 
watching  the  unpretentious,  old-fashioned  waterway 
slipping  quaintly  through  the  city  of  blood  and 
iron,  of  science  and  hard  thinking,  of  peremptory 
officialdom  and  rapid  transit.  While  the  buildings 
and  streets  of  Berlin  remind  one  everywhere  of  the 
recent  kings  and  emperors,  the  Spree  still  keeps  a 
hint  of  the  day  of  Irontooth,  who  refused  the  crown 
of  Poland  for  the  sake  of  old-fashioned  righteous- 
ness; of  Albrecht  Achilles,  who  leaped  alone  over 
the  walls  of  Grafenburg  and  kept  five  hundred 
armed  men  at  bay  until  help  came;  of  Joachim 
Nestor,  the  astrologer;  and  of  the  Great  Elector, 
who,  watchful  above  the  river,  still  tries  to  guard 
the  city's  oldest  part  from  a  too  ruthless  modernity. 
And  this  is  only  fair,  for  he  started  the  mighty  move- 
ment wliich  has  made  Old- World  romance  exotic  in 
Berlin. 

Rude  barges  filled  with  timber  or  enameled  bricks 

66 


BERLIN 

are  poled  laboriously  up  and  down  the  shallows  by 
patient  men  with  low  brows  and  dark  skins,  descend- 
ants, perhaps,  of  the  original  Wendish  inhabitants 
of  Brandenburg  Mark,  figures  that  sweep  the  imagi- 
nation back  to  the  time  when  Henry  the  Fowler 
stormed  the  heathen  fort  of  Brannibor,  long  before 
"Wehrlin,"  "the  little  rampart"  in  Bo-Russia,  or 
"Near-Russia,"  began  to  show  symptoms  of  grow- 
ing up  into  Berlin,  the  capital  of  Prussia  and  of  the 
German  Empire. 

Old  Kolln,  the  island  in  the  Spree  containing  the 
castle,  the  cathedral,  and  the  principal  museums, 
was  first  mentioned  in  1237,  seven  years  before  its 
neighbor,  Old  Berlin,  eastward  across  the  river. 
The  sister  towns  were  of  small  importance,  and  there 
was  not  so  much  as  a  ripple  on  the  surface  of  his- 
tory when,  in  1411,  they  both  came  under  the  con- 
trol of  Frederick  Irontooth.  Johann  Cicero  made 
Berlin  the  permanent  Hohenzollern  headquarters  in 
1488,  and  two  centuries  later  the  Great  Elector  laid 
there  the  foundations  of  modern  Prussia. 

The  Fischer- Strasse,  running  southeastward  from 
the  Kolln  Fish  Market,  contains  some  surprises  for 
the  adventurer,  and  the  Nussbaum  restaurant  will 
give  him  a  thrill,  with  its  genuine  tree,  its  sharp, 
picturesque  gable,  and  the  hint  of  Renaissance  half- 
timber  wall  peeping  forth  behind  it. 

*  67 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

But  the  part  of  Berlin  that  stands  alone  in  its  at- 
mosphere of  romantic  age  is  the  Krogl.  From  the 
Fish  Market  you  cross  the  city's  most  venerable 
bridge,  pass  the  Milk  Market,  and  turn  down  a  nar- 
row alley  between  tall,  old-fashioned  houses,  the 
plaster  peeling  from  their  poor  fronts,  but  with 
flowers  and  vines  in  the  windows — an  alley  with  a 
charming  roof-line,  which  bends  gracefully  down 
toward  the  river,  where  boatmen,  their  poles  braced 
against  a  pile,  walk  their  boats  up-stream  with  a 
curious  effect.  It  is  good  to  find  water-grasses  act- 
ually growing  at  the  foot  of  the  Krogl,  a  strange 
sight  within  the  limits  of  this  stern  city.  On  one 
worn  wooden  portal  one  notices  a  remnant  of  the 
beautiful  iron  tracery  of  the  Renaissance.  You 
pass  through  an  arch  by  the  waterside  into  a  more 
picturesque  alley.  On  one  hand  is  a  house  the  upper 
story  of  which  projects  as  do  those  in  the  streets 
of  Brunswick  and  Hildesheim,  but  its  corbels  must 
be  in  the  real  old  style  of  vanished  Berlin,  for  they 
are  unique.  And  this  house  actually  lurks  in  the 
heart  of  the  German  capital  opposite  a  wall  blessed 
with  a  blind  colonnade  and  the  rich  patina  of  ages. 
Beneath  another  arch  you  pause  to  look  through  a 
doorway  into  a  dusky  hole  where  three  Rembrandt- 
ish  broom-makers  are  dipping  yellow  straws  into  a 
pot  of  pitch.     The  glare  of  charcoal  is  on  their  pale, 

68 


TUL.  JANinvnz  liKIlK,!'   (i\l-.K  THE  Sl'RLIj. 


BERLIN 

worn  faces  and  dark  beards.  Two  doves  coo  on  the 
perch  just  outside  the  tiny  smoke-blackened  win- 
dow. Hasten,  traveler,  oh,  hasten,  if  you  would 
enjoy  the  last  of  old  Berlin!  For  the  Krogl  may 
soon  be  condemned  by  the  same  power  that  period- 
ically scours  the  statues  in  the  Sieges- Allee. 

A  sunset  on  the  Spree,  seen  from  one  of  the  upper 
bridges,  is  well  worth  while.  The  traffic  teeming 
on  the  glassy,  rosy  surface  where  it  broadens  into  a 
wide  basin,  the  bridge-lights  stabbing  the  water  be- 
tween boats,  the  irregular  old  fa9ades  of  the  right 
bank  backed  by  the  massive  tower  of  the  Rathaus 
and  the  twin  spires  of  the  Church  of  St.  Nicholas; 
the  bulk  of  the  Provincial  Museum,  the  domes  of 
cathedral  and  castle, — all  these  compose  in  the  half- 
light  into  a  picture  containing  more  of  the  elements 
of  romance  than  one  had  dreamed  that  the  city  pos- 
sessed. 

Only  three  of  the  old  churches,  all  begun  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  are  noteworthy.  The  choir  of 
the  Cloister  Church  is  Berlin's  most  interesting  bit 
of  medieval  architecture.  The  Church  of  St.  Nich- 
olas contains  monuments  of  every  period  from  late 
Gothic  to  the  "Wig  Time,"  as  Germans  love  to  call 
the  weak  classical  reaction  late  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury; while  St.  JNIary's  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  a 
Gothic  fresco,  "The  Dance  of  Death,"  and  for  the 

71 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

rude  stone  cross  outside,  erected  in  expiation  of  the 
lynching  of  Provost  Nikolaus  of  Bernau  in  1325. 

From  these  remnants  of  medieval  Berlin,  past  the 
beauty  and  peace  of  rare  canvases  and  marbles,  the 
Spree  flows  direct  to  the  turmoil  and  fierce  energy 
which  the  Friedrich-Strasse  pours  over  the  Weiden- 
damm  Bridge.  This  street  is  the  main  channel  for 
Berlin's  notorious  night-life,  which  eddies  about  the 
Central  Hotel  and  its  vaudeville  "Garden."  The 
Cafe  Monopol,  near  by,  is  a  rendezvous  for  literary 
bohemia,  and  the  Cafe  Bauer,  at  the  crossing  of 
Unter  den  Linden,  is  the  cosmopolitan  resort  par 
excellence.  In  Tauben-Strasse  and  the  adjacent 
cross-streets  lies  the  "Latin  Quarter,"  full  of 
Moulins  Rouges  and  Bavarian  hostelries,  of  ball- 
houses,  variety- shows,  and  small,  select  cafes  that 
open  at  two  in  the  morning.  A  reckless  spirit  is  the 
mode  here,  and  one  often  sees  this  favorite  quatrain 
on  the  beer  mats : 

Das  Leben  froh  geniessen 

1st  der  Vernunft  Gebot. 
Man  lebt  doch  nur  so  kurze  Zeit 

Und  ist  so  lange  todt. 

("  Enjoy  your  life,  my  brother," 
Is  gray  old  Reason's  song. 
One  has  so  little  time  to  live 
And  one  is  dead  so  long.) 

72 


BERLIN 

The  Latin  Quarter's  frivolity  is  almost  over- 
shadowed by  the  dignity  of  the  Gendarmen  Markt, 
the  poor  twin  churches  of  which  were  capped  by  the 
architect  of  Frederick  the  Great  with  impressive 
cupolas,  and  now  compose  finely  with  the  massive- 
ness  of  Schinkel's  Royal  Theater.  These  churches, 
the  exterior  and  interior  of  which  are  out  of  all  rela- 
tion to  each  other,  are  good  types  of  the  insincere 
Wig  style.  The  market  is  particularly  effective 
with  the  moon  riding  high  between  its  cupolas  and 
lighting  Begas's  marble  monument  to  Schiller,  a 
brilliant  but  heartless  work.  Two  tablets  announce 
that  Heine  and  Hoffmann  lived  in  this  square. 

The  Leipziger-Strasse,  the  southern  boundary  of 
Berlin's  most  interesting  section,  is  the  main  busi- 
ness street.  Its  store-palaces  remind  one  that  Ber- 
lin is  the  leading  commercial  and  railroad  center  of 
the  Continent,  and  take  the  mind  back  along  the  line 
of  shrewd,  businesslike  Hohenzollerns  who  have 
brought  this  about.  It  is  no  freak  of  chance  that 
placed  the  stock  exchange  opposite  the  castle  and 
cathedral,  or  that  placed  the  JNIinistry  of  War  and 
the  Herrenhaus  in  the  Leipziger-Strasse.  For 
much  of  Prussia's  political  success  is  due  to  the  fact 
that  Berlin  is  the  chief  market  for  money,  grain, 
spirits,  and  wool.  Until  recently  the  English  have 
supposed  that  they  had  a  monopoly  of  Europe::!! 

73 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

business  talent;  but  now  Berlin's  rapidly  growing 
industries  are  making  England  and  America  look 
to  their  laurels  in  iron-founding,  the  manufacture 
of  machines,  railroad  materials,  wagons,  weapons, 
electrical  supplies,  and  in  the  chemical  and  textile 
industries.  And  the  city  knows  how  to  harmonize 
the  practical  with  the  esthetic;  Wertheim's  beauti- 
ful department  store  was  built  by  the  royal  architect 
of  museums,  Alfred  Messel,  while  the  architecture 
of  the  Rheingold,  near  by,  compares  favorably  with 
that  of  any  American  restaurant. 

From  this  commercial  street,  Wilhelm-Strasse 
leads  past  the  palaces  and  gardens  of  the  Chancellor, 
the  Foreign  Office,  the  ministers,  and  the  English 
Embassy  to  Unter  den  Linden.  In  the  quality, 
though  not  in  the  quantity,  of  its  activities,  Wilhelm- 
Strasse  is  considered  the  diplomatic  center  of  Eu- 
rope. It  is  a  monument  to  the  ruler  who,  in  spite 
of  his  inherited  instincts,  has  preserved  the  peace  of 
the  Continent  for  twenty  years. 

The  masses  of  marble  in  memory  of  Frederick 
III  and  the  Empress  Victoria,  erected  by  William 
II  outside  the  Brandenburg  Gate,  are  regarded  with 
dismay  by  artistic  Berlin,  as  is  the  Column  of  Vic- 
tory in  the  Konigs-Platz,  and  to  a  less  degree  the 
Reichstag,  whose  gifted  architect,  Paul  Wallot,  was 
hampered  by  imperial  collaboration.     The  exterior 

74 


BERLIN 

lacks  unity,  and  the  sculpture  is  monotonously  mili- 
tant; but  the  interior  is  a  masterpiece  of  arrange- 
ment. 

Hamburg's  mighty  monument  to  Bismarck 
dwarfs  the  Berlin  bronze  before  the,  Reichstag  both 
in  bulk  and  in  spirit ;  but,  on  each  side  of  it,  the  mer- 
men and  the  fisherfolk  are  delightfully  un-Prussian 
interludes,  while  the  hawthorns  about  the  Column  of 
Victory  add,  in  June,  a  grateful  glow  of  color  to 
colorless  Berlin. 

In  the  Sieges-Allee,  William  II  hit  upon  a  capital 
idea,  which  does  credit  to  his  love  of  education  and 
to  his  pride  in  his  forerunners.  But  here  again  it  is 
recognized  that  the  Emperor  fell  short,  and  his 
family  feeling  came  out  too  aggressively, — worst 
of  all,  that  he  made  the  old  mistake  of  fettering  the 
individuality  of  his  artists,  so  that  there  are  few 
works  of  genius  between  the  Column  of  Victory 
and  the  Roland  Fountain,  like  Schott's  "Albrecht 
the  Bear,"  and  Briitt's  "Otto  the  Lazy."  There  is, 
by  the  way,  a  popular  belief  that  the  latter  comes 
down  from  his  pedestal  at  night  and  goes  to  sleep 
on  the  stone  bench.  And  this  is  the  pleasantest  thing 
I  have  heard  the  Berliners  say  of  the  Sieges-Allee, 
which  they  have  christened  "The  Avenue  of  Dolls." 
One  schoolmaster,  however,  is  said  to  have  set  his 
boys  a  theme  on  "The  Leg-attitudes  of  the  Hohen- 

77 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

zollerns."  The  thirty-two  monuments  are  too  close 
together.  The  formal  recurrence  of  standing  ruler, 
two  Hermes  of  eminent  men,  and  a  semicircular 
bench  grows  monotonous;  and  it  would  have  been 
more  fitting  to  have  put  the  warrior  family  into 
bronze  instead  of  brittle  white  marble.  Yet  in  view 
of  the  conditions  under  which  the  artists  worked 
the  average  of  individual  plastic  achievement  is  high. 

It  is  not  generally  known  that  the  Tiergarten 
is  the  private  property  of  the  Emperor,  and  is  a  rem- 
nant of  the  ancient  hunting  forest  of  the  Hohenzol- 
lerns,  which  once  extended  to  the  castle  itself.  It  is 
so  full  of  sculpture  that  the  people  jokingly  call  it 
the  "Marmora  See,"  and  deny  that  there  is  any  room 
for  another  piece  of  marble;  yet  some  of  the  monu- 
ments, like  those  to  Wagner  and  Queen  Louise,  are 
excellent. 

Although  it  is  hard  to  find  a  spot  in  the  Tier- 
garten free  from  the  sound  of  cabs  and  trolleys,  yet 
it  is  to  me  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  city  parks. 
Its  chief  charm  lies  in  the  beauty  of  its  venerable 
trees,  in  the  many  ponds  and  streams  filled  with 
water-fowl,  in  the  flowers  and  shrubs,  and  the  con- 
stantly changing  delight  of  its  vistas.  On  coming 
here  from  the  tastelessness  of  the  Sieges-Allee,  one 
is  impressed  with  quite  another  phase  of  the  Hohen- 
zollern  character— its  genuine  love  of  nature,  merely 

78 


BERLIN 

hinted  at  in  the  Tiergarten,  and  which  finds  a  fuller 
expression  in  Potsdam. 

There  is  another  park  which  is  quieter,  simpler, 
more  idyllic— the  grounds  of  Charlottenburg  Castle. 
You  pass  the  Technical  High  School,  a  model  of 
its  kind,  and,  as  you  walk  westward,  the  people  seem 
to  grow  friendlier,  the  houses  older,  and  you  see  an 
occasional  alley  or  court  that  is  almost  picturesque. 
Color  creeps  imperceptibly  into  the  architecture,  and 
the  castle,  with  its  high,  graceful  dome,  is  in  a  warm 
orange  tint  that  reminds  you  of  Sans  Souci. 

Back  of  it,  in  a  lengthy  line,  stand  busts  of  Roman 
emperors  and  their  wives,  with  their  usually  official 
features  relaxed,  as  is  proper  on  a  suburban  jaunt. 
The  grass  grows  long  with  a  delicious  informality 
in  the  half-neglected  grounds,  damp  and  delight- 
ful as  though  it  knew  nothing  of  officialdom.  One 
feels  that  one  may  even  venture  to  set  foot  on  it 
without  starting  Prussian  fulminations.  And  one 
likes  to  think  of  those  royal  dead  lying  in  the  lovely 
mausoleum  amid  this  red-tapeless  nature  after  their 
etiquette-trammeled  lives. 

The  Zoological  Garden  at  the  southwestern  corner 
of  the  Tiergarten  is  one  of  the  most  complete  and 
best  organized  collections  of  animals  in  the  world. 
But  the  human  animal,  here  as  everywhere,  is  the 

79 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

most  interesting  exhibit.  The  "Zoo"  seems  always 
full  of  Berliners,  and  is  an  excellent  place  to  study 
that  remarkable  species. 

When  I  speak  of  the  Berliner,  I  do  not  mean  the 
highest  stratum  of  Berlin  society;  for  the  gentle- 
man and  the  gentlewoman  are  fairly  constant  types 
the  world  over,  and,  in  judging  the  average  quality 
of  the  people  of  any  metropolis,  one  finds  the  cul- 
tured classes  forming  such  a  slight  proportion  of  the 
whole  as  to  be  almost  negligible. 

There  are,  of  course,  many  citizens  of  Berlin  who 
are  represented  in  no  detail  of  the  following  picture. 
It  is  a  composite  portrait  of  that  well-known  per- 
sonage whom  the  young  clerk,  fresh  from  the  prov- 
inces, sets  about  imitating;  the  person  whose  origin 
is  recognized  the  moment  he  enters  any  European 
cafe;  the  person  with  whom  the  stranger  in  Berlin 
has  almost  exclusive  dealings. 

The  studies  for  this  portrait  were  gathered  not 
alone  from  personal  observation  during  repeated 
stays  in  Berlin,  but  also  from  a  consensus  of  the 
opinions  of  many  Berliners  and  other  Germans  and 
foreigners,  and  from  the  voluminous  literature  of  the 
subject. 

The  Berliner  inclines  to  imperial  standards  in 
appearance  and  character,  very  much  as  his  city 
does.     A    smooth,    determined    chin,    a    daunting 

80 


BERLIN 

glance,  a  right  noble  pose,  a  rapid  stride,  are  all  the 
mode.  An  upturned  mustache  has  recently  been 
de  rigueur,  and  one  notices  with  a  smile  that  even  the 
bronze  mermen  on  the  Heydt  Bridge  possess  the 
imperial  "string-beard." 

One  of  the  Berliner's  most  trying  characteristics 
is  his  superiority.  He  has  known  the  latest  joke 
at  least  ten  years.  Do  not  try  to  tell  him  anything 
or  to  strike  from  him  the  least  spark  of  enthusiasm; 
for  news  is  no  news  to  him:  he  was  born  blase.  His 
eleventh  commandment  is,  "Let  not  thyself  be 
bluffed";  his  life  motto,  "Nil  admirari."  In  con- 
versation he  instinctively  interrupts  each  fresh  sub- 
ject to  deliver  the  last  word  upon  it,  and  to  argue 
with  him  is  to  insult  him.  Here  it  is  easy  to  trace 
the  didactic  influence  of  the  ruler  who  devotes  much 
of  his  spare  time  to  the  instruction  of  genius. 

There  is  something  cutting  in  the  Berliner's 
speech.  Perhaps  Voltaire's  influence  on  the  great 
Frederick,  the  critic-king,  started  this  dreadful 
habit,  which  seems  to  grow  with  indulgence.  It  is 
a  curious  coincidence  that  the  first  performance  of 
Goethe's  "Faust"  should  have  been  given  in  Schloss 
Monbijou,  the  home  of  the  Hohenzollern  JNIuseum, 
for  it  would  almost  seem  as  though  the  Berliner s 
had  modeled  their  daily  speech  after  the  caustic, 
sneering  style  of  the  engaging  villain  in  that  drama. 

83 


RO]\IANTIC  GERMANY 

They  have  little  humor,  but  much  wit  of  the  barbed, 
barracks  variety.     And  their  target  is  the  universe. 

Of  a  cross-eyed  man  they  say:  "He  peeps  with 
his  right  eye  into  his  left  waistcoat  pocket";  of  one 
with  a  large  mouth:  "He  can  whisper  into  his  own 
ear";  of  a  pock-marked  person:  "He  sat  on  a  cane- 
bottomed  chair  with  his  face." 

Bismarck  often  showed  this  kind  of  wit,  as, 
for  instance,  in  the  letter  written  in  1844  from 
Norderney : 

Opposite  me  at  table  sits  the  old  Count  B  .  .  .  ,  one  of 
those  shapes  that  appear  to  us  in  dreams  if  we  are  not  feel- 
ing well,  a  fat  frog  without  legs,  which  before  each  bite 
tears  open  its  mouth  like  a  sleeping-bag  down  to  the  shoul- 
ders, so  that  I  hold  on  giddily  to  the  edge  of  the  table. 

This  sort  of  thing  is  telling,  but  it  hardly  makes 
for  brotherly  love,  and  a  little  of  it  goes  a  great  way. 
Humor  implies  sympathy;  wit,  the  opposite;  and 
this  exclusive  cultivation  of  wit  is  a  product  of  the 
ancient  reserve  and  Ungemutlichkeit  of  the  North. 

In  the  "Germania,"  Tacitus  describes  the  North 
German's  coldness  and  reserve,  his  love  of  solitude, 
his  custom  of  settling  far  from  high-road  and  neigh- 
bor. And  he  has  changed  little  at  heart  since 
Tacitus.  Many  of  the  Hohenzollerns  have  pos- 
sessed this  quality,  but  none  more  than  Frederick 
the  Great.     "He  had,"  wrote  Carlyle,  "the  art  of 

84 


BERLIN" 

wearing  among  his  fellow-creatures  a  polite  cloak- 
of-darkness  ...  a  man  politely  impregnable  to 
the  intrusion  of  human  curiosity;  able  to  look 
cheerily  into  the  very  eyes  of  men,  and  talk  in  a 
social  way  face  to  face,  and  yet  continue  intrin- 
sically invisible  to  them." 

The  Berliner  is  unapproachable  and  outwardly 
cold.  He  is  prudish  about  showing  emotion,  and 
considers  the  gemiitlich  Bavarian  effeminate.  True, 
allowance  must  be  made  for  the  disappearance  of  hu- 
man qualities  among  the  people  of  a  metropoHs ;  but 
Berliners  are  far  less  friendly  than  Parisians  or  Lon- 
doners. 

The  most  merciless  critics  of  Berlin,  however, 
are  its  own  citizens. 

"We  are  become  such  dreary  people,"  writes  Nau- 
mann,  "that  we  are  almost  dead  of  inner  cold.  We 
are  rich  in  knowledge,  and  beggars  in  feeling.  We 
are  become  too  withered  for  boundless  offering,  for 
love  unto  death,  for  sacrifice  and  devotion,  for 
prayer  and  eternal  hope.  We  have  been  taught  that 
we  must  be  sapless,  heartless  half -men  if  we  would 
stand  on  the  summit  of  the  times.  Alas !  this  barren, 
this  parched,  this  pitiful  civilization!" 

Aggressiveness  has  ever  been  a  leading  Prussian 
trait,  and  without  it  the  historj^  of  Europe  would 
have   been   quite    different.     But   this   quality   has 

85 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

often  shown  to  poor  advantage,  as  when  Frederick 
William  caned  the  shrinking  Potsdam  Jew,  ex- 
claiming, "I  '11  teach  you  to  love  me!" 

The  city  is  alive  with  uniforms.  The  citizen 
brings  the  manners  of  the  camp  into  his  daily  life, 
and,  in  lieu  of  an  epaulet,  goes  about  with  a  chip 
on  his  shoulder.  In  the  shops  it  is  common  for  the 
clerk  to  inquire  sneeringly,  "Is  that  all  you  're  going 
to  buy?"  And  presently  those  trite  old  phrases 
about  "the  world's  broad  field  of  battle"  and  "the 
bivouac  of  Life"  begin  to  take  on,  for  the  stranger, 
a  little  more  vital  meaning. 

In  the  Museum  of  Arts  and  Crafts  I  had  an  ex- 
perience characteristic  of  the  city.  A  pile  of  five- 
cent  catalogues  lay  on  a  table  in  the  main  hall.  I 
thought  of  investing,  but  my  hand  was  still  on  the 
way  when,  from  fifty  feet  behind,  came  the  roar 
of  a  guard:  "Don't  touch!  Those  cost  money." 
There  is  a  favorite  Berlin  motto  apropos  of  this 
quality: 

Bescheidenheit  ist  eine  Zier, 

Doch  kommt  man  welter  ohne  ihr. 

(Humility  has   charm,  no  doubt, 
But  one  can  get  ahead  without.) 

Though  the  Berliners  are  their  own  most  extrava- 
gant critics,  they  will  not  tolerate  disparagement 

86 


WERTHEI.MS  S  lURb  IN  THE  LEIPZIGERSTRASSE 


BERLIN 

from  any  one  else.  The  other  Germans  call  them 
"aufgeblasen,"  which  is  to  be  interpreted,  "pneu- 
matic."    A  popular  story  is  apropos: 

"Ah,"  cried  the  provincial,  "behold  the  beautiful 
full  moon!" 

"Pshaw!"  sniffed  the  Berliner.  "That  's  nothing 
at  all  to- the  full  moon  in  Berlin." 

Their  esthetic  standards  are  reflected  in  the  homes 
and  the  dress  of  the  people,  and  not  long  ago  Dio- 
tellevi,  an  Italian  critic,  maliciously  wrote,  "Their 
ideal  in  domestic  architecture  is  that  of  the  universal 
exposition."  Over-ornamentation,  and  discords  in 
colors,  materials,  and  styles  are  the  fashion.  In 
this  connection  A.  O.  Weber,  the  most  popular  of 
recent  German  satirists,  has  written  somewhat  as 
follows : 

Berlin  's  a  place  that  makes  me  laugh — 
Marble  and  plaster,  half  and  half; 
A  city  that  reminds  me  ever 

Of  some  sublime,  some  howling  swell 
Who  wears  a  smart  black  frock-coat  never 
Without  high  rubber  boots  as  well. 

But  the  beautiful  new  statues  of  the  princes  of 
Orange  show  that  the  taste  of  official  Berlin  has 
improved  of  late.  And  that  the  taste  of  the  Ber- 
liner has  made  a  corresponding  advance  is  evident  in 
the  charming  new  cement  houses  of  Charlottenburg, 

89 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

in  the  great  retail  stores  of  the  Leipziger-Strasse, 
and  in  the  villas  of  Grunewald. 

Finally,  before  turning  to  the  more  agreeable  side 
of  the  Berliners,  it  must  be  remarked  that  they  are 
unconscionable  martinets.  A  socialist  once  declared 
that  it  took  half  of  all  the  Germans  to  control  the 
other  half.  This  is  truer  of  Berlin  than  of  any 
other  place  I  know.  There  even  the  street-sweeper, 
highly  conscious  of  his  officialdom,  wields  his  broom 
like  a  scepter.  The  sign  Verhoten!  (Forbidden!) 
is  more  common  than  the  posters  of  America's  favor- 
ite articles  of  commerce  in  New  York.  The  city  is 
superbly  governed,  but  with  a  nagging,  tedious  pa- 
ternalism that  is  at  first  amusing  and  then  oppressive 
to  one  whose  ancestors  never  formed  the  habit.  There 
is  a  true  story  of  a  Berlin  conductor  and  a  lady 
who  was  standing  with  a  lap-dog  in  her  arms. 

"Sit  down!"  cried  the  conductor. 

"But  I  prefer  to  stand." 

"Sit  down!"  he  shrieked,  forcing  her  into  a  seat. 
"Lap-dogs  must  be  carried  in  the  lap." 

Because  their  unpleasant  qualities  are  on  the  sur- 
face, and  their  admirable  ones  are  below,  the  Ber- 
liners do  a  grave  injustice  to  the  rest  of  Germany. 
Many  foreigners  go  first  to  the  capital,  are  repelled 
by  the  people  they  first  meet,  and  hasten  on  to 
France  or  Italy  with  the  idea  that  all  Germans 

90 


I 


BERLIN 

have  corrosive  tongues  and  the  manners  of  a  drill- 
sergeant.  Whereas  there  is  no  wider  difference  in 
temperament  between  the  people  of  Naples  and 
those  of  Warsaw  than  between  the  citizens  of  JNIunich 
and  the  citizens  of  Berlin. 

There  is  a  story  of  a  Thuringian  woman  who  was 
asked  if  she  had  seen  Berlin.  "No,"  she  replied; 
"I  have  never  been  abroad." 

In  fact,  their  countrymen  regard  the  Berliner s 
with  almost  as  little  sjinpathy  as  though  they  were 
foreigners.  In  Leipsic  the  word  "Prussian"  means 
"angry";  in  Thuringia,  "exacting";  in  Altenburg, 
"in  strained  relations";  in  Erfurt,  "obstinate";  and 
in  South  Germany,  "raging." 

Yet  when  one  comes  to  know  the  Berliners,  it  is 
not  hard  to  discount  these  irritating,  superficial  traits 
and  to  love  the  people  for  the  splendid,  enduring 
qualities  that  lie  so  deep.  What  was  said  of  Bis- 
marck might  apply  to  the  typical  Berliner.  He  is 
like  a  flannel  shirt  that  scratches  at  first,  but  in  the 
mountains  you  can  wear  no  other.  The  Hohen- 
zollerns  have  worn  so  well  that  they  have,  as  a  rule, 
been  more  beloved  in  old  age  than  in  youth. 

It  takes  years  to  make  a  friend  of  a  Berhner,  but 
then  you  have  a  friend  indeed.  His  chief  virtue  is 
his  uprightness,  his  sturdy  sense  of  duty.  When 
the  Great  Elector  was  urged  in  turbulent  times  to 

«  91 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

marry,  he  responded,  "My  dagger  must  be  my  bride 
until  this  task  is  done."  Frederick  the  Great  said: 
"It  is  not  necessary  that  I  live;  but  it  is  necessary 
that  I  do  my  duty."  The  first  Emperor  had  "no 
time  to  be  tired,"  and  his  noble  Empress  Augusta 
was  fond  of  saying,  "Empires  pass;  God  alone 
remains." 

Principles  like  these  are  the  foundation  of  the 
Berliner's  character.  No  other  city  in  the  world 
has  such  an  honest  and  efficient  administration.  Of 
an  annual  municipal  report  Professor  Richard  T. 
Ely  writes,  "One  finds  it  difficult  not  to  believe  it 
a  description  of  some  city  government  in  Utopia." 

Over  forty-four  thousand  citizens  take  part  with- 
out reward  in  the  administration  of  affairs,  and  these 
include  the  foremost  Berliners.  There  is  no  body 
of  men  more  public-spirited,  more  really  benevolent, 
more  imbued  with  the  idea  of  progress.  And  over 
2000  of  the  2,000,000  inhabitants  are  members  of 
local  charity  commissions  which  have  discovered  how 
to  help  the  poor  without  imposing  degrading 
conditions. 

In  the  gift  for  organization  and  in  executive 
talent  the  Berliners  rival  their  rulers.  "No  Euro- 
pean court,"  writes  Bryce,  "has  been  more  consis- 
tently practical  than  that  of  Berlin.  .  .  .  Her  rulers 
have    eschewed    sentimental    considerations    them- 

92 


BERLIN 

selves  and  have  seldom  tried  to  awaken  them  in  the 
minds  of  the  people.  .  .  .  Ever  since  the  Reforma- 
tion the  Hapsburg  princes  and  their  policy  have  been 
regarded  with  aversion  by  the  more  intelligent  and 
progressive  part  of  the  nation ;  while  Prussia,  recog- 
nized from  the  days  of  the  Great  Elector  as  the  lead- 
ing Protestant  power,  naturally  became  the  reposi- 
tory of  intelligence,  liberty,  and  enlightenment." 
So  it  is  not  surprising  that  they  should  have  borne  a 
leading  part  in  forming  the  Tariff  Union  of  1833, 
in  making  education  compulsory,  in  agrarian  re- 
form, in  the  conscription  movement,  and  in  the  uni- 
fication of  the  German  Empire. 

"Berlin  is  new,  all  new,  too  new,"  exclaimed 
Huard  in  his  caricature,  "Berlin  comme  je  I'ai  vu," 
—"newer  than  any  American  city,  newer  than  Chi- 
cago, which  is  the  only  city  comparable  to  it  in  the 
prodigious  rapidity  of  its  development."  Indeed, 
in  freshness,  in  youthful  energy  and  initiative,  the 
Hohenzollerns  and  the  Berliners  are  more  like 
Americans  than  like  Germans.  And  in  the  matter 
of  municipal  comfort  they  have  left  every  one  else 
far  behind.  Public  utilities  are  managed  by  the 
city,  and  are  such  models  of  efficiency,  cheapness, 
and  profitableness  as  to  make  an  American  sick  with 
envy.  Every  street  is  thoroughly  cleaned  in  the 
small  hours  of  the  night,  and  the  humblest  pave- 

93 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

ments  are  as  immaculate  as  the  asphalt  of  Unter 
den  Linden.  It  is  possible  that  such  splendid  re- 
sults might  have  been  reached  in  a  kindlier  way; 
but  after  years  in  Berlin  the  advantages  of  the 
system  neutralize  one's  irritation  at  being  over- 
governed. 

The  Berliners  have  inherited  their  masters'  love 
of  independence — a  reason  for  the  periodic  friction 
between  ruler  and  subject.  This  quality  of  the 
North  Germans  (whose  ancient  names  were  derived 
from  words  meaning  "sword"  and  "warrior")  made 
them  the  most  obstinate  opponents  of  the  Roman 
rule,  and  led  them  to  embrace  Protestantism  long 
before  the  rest  of  Germany.  And  in  Berlin  to-day 
the  Protestants  outnumber  the  Roman  Catholics  by 
nine  to  one. 

Like  their  Emperor,  the  people  of  Berlin  have 
an  earnest  desire  for  culture,  and,  like  him,  are  con- 
stantly trying  to  make  encyclopedias  of  themselves. 
Though  the  city  has  produced  few  artists  of  the  first 
rank,  it  has  been  more  fortunate  in  begetting  scholars 
and  philosophers,  and  has  always  succeeded  in  in- 
ducing genius  to  come  and  work  in  its  unfavorable 
atmosphere,  although  such  men  as  Goethe  and 
Mendelssohn  have  denounced  the  anticreative  spirit 
of  the  place. 

Though  the  Berliners  are  such  virulent  self -critics, 

94 


BERLIN 

they  are  their  own  most  devoted  adorers.  So  it  is 
not  strange  that  they  abuse  in  set  terms  the  princes 
after  whom  they  have  patterned — and  love  them  as 
their  own  souls.  It  is  touching  to  see  the  devotion 
in  the  faces  of  the  crowd  as  the  Emperor  every 
morning  leaves  the  Chancellor's  palace,  or  as  he 
drives  in  Unter  den  Linden  down  an  avenue  of 
hatless  subjects.  I  recollect  a  characteristic  scene. 
The  Emperor  was  taking  the  air  on  foot,  followed 
by  two  adjutants,  the  Empress  trotting  to  keep  up 
with  his  vigorous  pace.  Lined  along  the  curb  ahead 
were  forty  droshkies,  their  rabid,  anti-imperialistic, 
socialistic  drivers  drooping  on  their  boxes  or  lolling 
inside.  The  first  man  to  spy  his  Majesty  gave  a 
sharp  hiss,  and  the  whole  line,  with  more  alacrity  than 
I  had  ever  before  noticed  in  them,  leaped  to  the 
ground  and  devotedly  swept  off  their  shiny,  water- 
proof hats,  while  the  Emperor,  greatly  amused, 
strode  along,  saluting  as  regularly  as  though  he  were 
chopping  a  cord  of  wood. 

The  damp,  misty  climate  has  undoubtedly  had  a 
disagreeable  effect  on  the  character  of  the  people, 
for  the  city  is  in  the  latitude  of  Labrador  and  lies 
low,  near  that  fog-breeder,  the  Baltic. 

But  a  mellow,  perfect  bit  of  autumn  weather 
creates  the  illusion,  by  sheer  force  of  contrast,  that 
Berlin  is  one  of  the  most  ravishing  places  in  the 

95 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

world.  One  can  dream  in  the  parks  or  wander  along 
the  streams,  filled  with  the  dolce  far  niente  of  Fiesole 
or  Sorrento.  And  the  people,  the  harsh,  corrosive 
Berliners,  seem  suddenly  to  secrete  a  little  of  the 
milk  of  human  kindness.  On  such  a  day  I  have 
seen  a  group  of  wry-faced  Prussians  run  into  the 
street  and  help  a  weak  horse  to  get  his  load  over  the 
ridge  of  the  Frederick  Bridge.  Such  moments  are 
wonderfully  effective  against  their  somber  back- 
ground, and  the  most  engaging  sight  I  have  ever 
seen  in  the  city  was  that  of  a  little  green  bell-boy  in 
his  brand-new  uniform,  being  kissed  on  the  sly  by 
his  dear  mama  behind  the  Palace  Hotel. 

After  a  day  of  Berlin's  best  weather,  the  sunset 
along  the  Landwehr  Canal  is  beyond  praise.  From 
the  confusion  and  din  of  the  Potsdamer-Strasse  I 
came  out  upon  a  scene  at  the  bridge  as  unreal  as  a 
vision— a  suddenly  flashed  symbol  of  the  good,  true 
heart  of  Berlin. 

I  shall  never  again  look  with  a  careless  eye  upon 
the  Potsdam  Bridge  after  having  seen  that  sky  flam- 
ing behind  it  a  deepening  crimson.  And  when  I 
stood  on  the  Cornelius  Bridge,  watching  in  the  un- 
rippled  surface  the  inverted  pyramids  of  rosy  and 
pale-blue  sky  framed  by  the  dusky  softness  of  the 
leaves;  when  I  saw  a  curl  of  pale-blue  smoke  rising 
from  an  apex  broken  by  a  single  magnificent  tree, 

96 


THE  LANUWEHR  CAN'AI.  -WITH  THE  POTSDAM  BRIDGE.  AS  SEEN  I-ROM 
THE  KOMGIN-AUGISTASTRASSE 


BERLIN 

as  though  the  sun  itself  were  smoldering  away,  and, 
in  the  watery  foliage,  two  high  lights,  picked  out  by 
the  arcs  on  the  bank,  I  praised  God  for  letting  His 
great  out-of-door  loveliness  into  the  heart  of  that 
self-contained,  repellent  city. 

Framed  by  the  trees  the  cold,  Romanesque, 
Berlin-like  spires  of  the  Memorial  Church  took  on 
a  more  than  earthly  glamour.  I  walked  down- 
stream to  watch  the  moored  boats,  never  so  pic- 
turesque as  then;  to  contrast  the  Zoo's  broad  blare 
of  yellow  light  with  the  radiance  dying  in  ever 
fainter  bars  of  azure,  rose,  and  robin's-egg  blue 
above  the  luscious  curve  of  the  bank;  to  enjoy  the 
pronounced  splashes  of  liquid  light  reflected  from 
the  bridge  behind. 

A  launch  puffed  into  the  sunset  with  a  jet  of 
creamy  smoke,  sending  the  brazen  ripples  vibrating 
to  the  rhythm  of  the  sensitive,  beauty-loving  human 
hearts  for  whom  the  scene  was  made. 


99 


Ill 


POTSDAM-THE  PLAYGROUND  OF 
THE  HOHENZOLLERNS 

,T  would  be  as  unjust  to  form  an  estimate 
g»  of  the  Hohenzollerns  or  of  their  capital 
without  visiting  Potsdam  as  to  form  an 
estimate  of  Germany  without  visiting  Ba- 
varia. For  Potsdam  is  more  than  "the 
Prussian  Versailles."  It  represents  the  comple- 
ment of  those  sterner  Hohenzollern  qualities  which 
are  embodied  in  the  city  of  blood  and  iron. 

Cold,  colorless  Berlin  may  well  be  seen  on  the 
gray  days  of  standard  Prussian  weather.  Sunlight 
seems  exotic  there.  But  the  characteristic  charm  of 
Potsdam  is  revealed  only  when  skies  are  bright  and 
flowers  are  in  bloom. 

One  should  prepare  himself  for  the  visit  by  spend- 
ing a  while  with  the  "History  of  Frederick  the 
Great,"  and  by  studying,  in  the  National  Gallery, 
the  pictures  of  Menzel,  who  created  for  our  eyes 
the  great  character  whom  Carlyle  created  for  our 
imaginations. 

100 


POTSDAM 

On  the  morning  when  the  traveler  awakes  with 
the  prospect  of  a  sunny  day  in  Sans  Souci,  he  should 
chasten  himself,  leaving  his  Berlin-irritated  critical 
faculty  to  seek  what  it  may  devour  in  the  city,  and 
with  a  free  heart  come  away  for  a  day  of  pure  plea- 
sure in  the  playground  of  the  HohenzoUerns. 

It  is  customary  to  visit  Potsdam  by  rail  and 
plunge  at  once  into  the  rococo  interior  of  the  castle. 
But  it  is  far  better  to  rise  early  and  alight  at  Wann- 
see;  for  a  better  approach  is  by  boat,  or,  better 
still,  on  foot  through  the  pines  and  beside  the  quiet 
waters  of  that  string  of  lakes  called  the  River  Havel. 

One  passes  the  Peacock  Island,  the  home  of  the 
Great  Elector's  alchemist,  where  Frederick  Wil- 
liam III  planted  his  famous  garden  of  roses.  It  is 
a  memorable  experience  to  emerge  from  the  per- 
fume, the  color,  the  breathless  peace  of  wood  and 
water,  upon  the  magnificent  sweep  of  road  that 
skirts  the  Jungfern-See  and  to  catch  the  first  faint 
glimpse  of  the  spires  and  domes  of  Potsdam. 

Near  the  bridge  of  Glienicke  flashes  out  a  glint 
of  "the  glory  that  was  Greece," — a  copy  of  the 
choragic  monument  of  Lysicrates, — to  remind  the 
wayfarer  of  Voltaire's  exclamation:  "Potsdam  is 
Sparta  and  Athens  in  one." 

Prince  Leopold,  who  lives  here  in  the  lovely  park 
of  Glienicke,  is  no  lover  of  art,  and  has  made  him- 

101 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RWEKSIDE 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

self  unpopular  by  refusing  admittance  to  the  castle 
and  the  hunting-lodge  which  the  Great  Elector 
built  for  himself  in  the  days  of  elk  and  wildcat;  but 
a  Berlin  painter  who  once  made  his  way  inside  by 
impersonating  an  official  has  told  me  of  the  neglected 
ancient  marbles  and  the  wonderful  Venetian  cloister 
he  saw  there. 

Beyond  the  southern  waters  the  Tudor  Gothic 
of  Babelsberg  Castle  shows  through  the  trees,  a  style 
rare  in  these  Northern  lands  and  harmonizing  with 
the  Flatow-Turm,  which  was  copied  from  Frank- 
fort's finest  gate-tower.  The  first  German  emperor 
spent  his  last  days  at  Babelsberg,  and  nowhere  else 
may  you  have  so  vivid  an  impression  of  the  character 
of  that  plain,  kindly,  ascetic  old  soldier. 

Across  the  bridge  and  beyond  the  "Berlin  Sub- 
urb," the  Marble  Palace  rises  from  among  the  trees 
beside  the  Holy  Lake,  the  birthplace  and  home  of 
the  present  crown  prince.  Seen  from  the  opposite 
shore,  the  building  has  a  really  monumental  effect, 
and  the  classical  forms  are  handled  with  unusual 
elegance.  Gontard,  the  architect  of  the  twin  towers 
in  Berlin's  Gendarmen-Markt,  created  in  this  palace 
the  sincerest  example  of  the  "Wig  style." 

Through  these  grounds,  along  the  shore  of  the 
Jungfern-See,  a  charming  path  leads  to  the  Pfingst- 

102 


THL  MARBLfc   PALACE  UN  TUT  HOL\    LAkL 


BABELSBERG 


POTSDAM 

berg,  with  its  huge,  unfinished  belvedere  in  the  style 
of  the  Florentine  Renaissance. 

It  is  difficult  not  to  spend  days  among  these  out- 
posts of  Potsdam.  Indeed,  it  is  an  achievement  to 
gain  a  clear  idea  of  the  town,  so  numerous  are  its 
interesting  points  and  so  widely  dispersed. 

The  way  to  the  oldest  part  leads  through  the 
drowsy  Dutch  quarter,  the  austere  red-brick  houses 
of  which,  with  their  unfamiliar  gables,  were  built 
by  Frederick  William  I  in  a  curious  fit  of  enthusiasm 
for  the  architecture  of  Holland.  Through  a  courtly 
old  street  flows  a  canal — a  dozing  canal — the  func- 
tion of  which  is  to  float  its  groups  of  stately  swans 
and  to  convince  the  traveler  that  he  is  in  some  quiet 
corner  of  Amsterdam. 

Beside  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  in  the 
shadow  of  Potsdam's  finest  steeple,  one  may  linger, 
watching  the  informal  river  life  and  enjoying  the 
quaint  houses  that  huddle  on  the  banks.  This  is 
the  site  of  Potsdam's  earliest  civilization.  Here  in 
the  swamp  lived  the  ancient  Semnones  until,  in  the 
fourth  century,  they  were  driven  away  by  the 
Wends,  who  called  the  place  "Potzdupimi,"  "Under 
the  Oaks."  These  people  gave  their  Slavic  names 
to  all  the  places  of  the  neighborhood.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  know  that,  although  most  of  these  names  have 
lived,  the  remnants  of  the  elder  Teutonic  population 

105 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

managed  to  preserve  traces  of  their  ancient  religion ; 
for  the  legend  of  "The  Wild  Hunt"  is  a  chapter 
from  the  life  of  Odin;  and  even  the  modern  belief 
in  the  nightly  apparition  of  a  white  horse  near  the 
Long  Bridge  may  be  traceable  to  Odin's  horse 
Sleipnir. 

Late  in  the  thirteenth  century  Potsdam  was  men- 
tioned in  a  mortgage  as  a  Stedeken,  or  little  city, 
and  obliged  to  send  as  its  military  contingent  to  the 
league  of  cities  "enen  Wegener  und  enen  Schiitt" — 
one  mailed  halberdier  and  one  crossbowman. 

The  Hohenzollerns  came  to  the  Mark  of  Brand- 
enburg in  1416.  But  they  were  a  busy  race  and 
paid  small  attention  to  Potsdam,  which  they  mort- 
gaged over  and  over  again  to  princes,  abbots, 
knights,  and  other  financiers  of  those  days. 

From  these  early  rulers  and  the  Thirty  Years' 
War  Potsdam  suffered  many  things,  and  gained, 
importance  only  with  the  rise  of  its  mighty  neighbor 
Berlin.     Then  it  became  the  royal  playground. 

The  Town  Castle  was  begun  by  the  Great  Elector, 
and  finished  by  Frederick  the  Great,  in  a  pleasant 
classical  style  in  the  midst  of  a  wicked  and  perverse 
generation  of  architecture.  Its  noble  colonnade  is 
the  first  thing  to  greet  the  traveler  coming  from  the 
station,  and  the  mellow  orange  tint  of  its  walls  is 
grateful  after  the  colorless  facades  of  Berlin.     In- 

106 


POTSDAM 

deed,  this  color  contrast  between  the  cities  is  sym- 
bolic; for  one  is  the  office  of  the  HohenzoUerns,  the 
other  their  garden. 

The  castle  stands  for  the  two  men  who  have  done 
most  for  Potsdam:  Frederick  William  I,  who  cared 
for  its  utility,  and  his  great  son,  who  developed  its 
beauty.  The  rooms  of  the  Spartan  king  have  been 
left  as  bare  and  forbidding  as  even  his  taste  could 
have  desired.  Above  his  death-bed  are  two  atro- 
cious pictures  painted  by  him  while  he  had  the  gout 
{In  tormentis  innooit  F.  W.),  one  of  which  por- 
trays a  nude  female  with  two  left  feet.  And  here 
are  a  chair  and  a  clock  which  he  constructed  under 
the  same  grim  conditions  of  "torment."  Memories 
of  the  notorious  Tobacco  Parliament  still  hang  about 
the  castle.  This  function  was  at  once  an  informal 
council  of  state  and  a  royal  "rough-house."  It  is 
not  definitely  known  in  which  room  it  was  held,  for 
Frederick  the  Great  loathed  smoke  and  obliterated 
all  traces  of  the  odious  custom;  but  one  cannot 
wander  through  the  west  wing  without  imagining 
the  fat  king  and  his  courtiers  seated  about  a  table 
with  pipes,  beer,  and  pans  of  glowing  peat,  having 
their  Brobdingnagian  fun  with  poor  Dr.  Gundling, 
author.  President  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences,  and 
court  fool.  Carlyle  declared  that  the  art  of  writ- 
ing was  to  Frederick  William  I  "little  better  than 

109 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

that  of  vomiting  long  coils  of  wonderful  ribbon  for 
the  idlers  of  the  market-place."  And  so  the  court, 
in  need  of  diversion,  put  the  drunken  Gundling  to 
bed  with  young  bears.  When  he  refused  to  attend 
"Parliament"  they  broke  down  his  door  and  forced 
him  out  with  fireworks.  Between  the  doctor  and 
the  minor  court  fool  they  arranged  a  duel  first  of 
burning  peat-pans,  then  of  blank  cartridges  in  which 
the  sublime  goat's-hair  wig  of  Gundling  was  mor- 
tally burned.  And,  to  crown  all,  the  king  presented 
him  with  a  coffin  shaped  like  a  wine-cask,  in  which 
he  was  actually  buried,  to  the  horror  of  the  clergy. 
His  grave  with  its  pitiful  mock  epitaph  may  still 
be  seen  in  the  church  at  Bornstadt. 

Frederick  the  Great  ushered  in  a  more  humane 
period,  and  it  is  a  relief  to  pass  on  to  his  rooms, 
which  have  been  preserved  as  religiously  as  the  study 
of  Goethe  at  Frankfort.  There  is  the  confidential 
dining-room,  the  trap-door  table  of  which  communi- 
cated with  the  kitchen,  an  invention  of  Frederick's 
to  foil  long-eared  servants. 

The  library  consists  of  the  works  of  Voltaire, 
some  of  the  king's  own  writings  unbound,  and 
French  translations  of  the  classics.  For  French  was 
his  language;  he  read  little  German,  and  never 
learned  to  speak  or  write  it  correctly.  Before  Napo- 
leon's  invasion,    the    silver   furniture   was    painted 

110 


POTSDAM 

black,  a  needless  precaution;  for  the  conqueror  al- 
lowed nothing  but  the  paintings  to  be  disturbed,  and 
merely  cut  a  strip  of  silk  as  a  souvenir  from  Fred- 
erick's desk  in  the  writing-room.  Here  the  uphol- 
stery is  much  torn  by  the  claws  of  the  king's  favorite 
dog,  and  his  pet  brass  gargoyle  still  disgorges  warm 
air  from  a  corner.  Outside  the  window  is  the  "Peti- 
tion Linden,"  where  any  subject  with  a  grievance 
used  to  wait  for  the  kindly  Frederick,  who  believed 
in  the  "square  deal."  In  case  they  had  to  wait  too 
long,  they  would  climb  the  tree  and  flutter  their 
petitions  from  its  branches.  Then  Frederick  would 
see  the  reflection  in  the  mirror  by  his  desk,  and  come 
to  the  window. 

His  answer  to  one  of  these  petitions  in  the  second 
month  of  his  reign  brought  him  world-wide  renown. 
The  Fiscal-General  sent  in  a  complaint  that  the 
Roman  Catholics  were  proselytizing.  On  the  mar- 
gin Frederick,  in  his  wretched  German,  annotated 
this  sentence: 

"Die  Religionen  Miisen  alle  Tollerirt  werden,  und 
Mus  der  Fiscal  nuhr  das  Auge  darauf  haben,  das 
keine  der  andern  abrug  Tube,  den  hier  mus  ein  jeder 
nach  seiner  Fasson  Selich  werden."  ("All  religions 
must  be  tolerated,  and  the  Fiscal  must  have  an  eye  that 
none  encroach  unjustly  on  the  other ;  for  in  this  coun- 
try every  one  must  get  to  heaven  in  his  own  way.") 

113 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

The  Town  Castle  possesses  one  of  the  most 
friendly  of  palace  interiors.  There  the  brilliant  ro- 
coco decorations  of  Knobelsdorff  ramble  about, 
naively  unconcerned  with  the  structural  and  the 
official.  And — blessed  change  from  Berlin  usage — 
the  guides  are  men,  not  weapons  of  offense. 

Both  Frederick  and  his  father  made  a  point  of 
reviewing  the  daily  drill  on  the  parade-ground  south 
of  the  castle,  and  to  this  day  the  spring  parade  at 
Potsdam  is  the  most  brilliant  event  of  its  kind.  I 
remember  attending  one  of  these  pageants  at  the 
invitation  of  the  Foreign  Office.  Even  the  card  of 
admission  was  strictly  military,  prescribing  where 
to  stand,  what  to  wear,  and  exactly  when  to  vacate 
the  rampart  in  favor  of  the  "allerhochsten  Herr- 
schaften."  After  Berlin,  the  brilliant  uniforms 
were  almost  blinding.  The  Lustgarten  was  a  rain- 
bow, and  though  too  small  for  a  parade-ground,  it 
was  pleasant  to  have  the  trees  so  near.  It  lent  an 
added  charm  of  mystery  and  surprise  to  have  a  com- 
pany suddenly  charge  out  of  the  wood,  leaving  be- 
tween the  trunks  only  the  sunlight  mirrored  from 
the  steel-like  surface  of  the  Havel. 

Such  a  scene  is  characteristic  of  Potsdam's  military 
life.  In  no  other  German  city  is  it  so  picturesque,  and 
it  has  had  this  quality  ever  since  the  days  of  Fred- 
erick William  I  and  his  mania  for  tall  grenadiers. 

114 


POTSDAM 

Even  the  uniforms  are  more  attractive  than  others, 
and  I  shall  long  remember  the  picture  of  a  military 
harvest  here,  the  soldiers  in  scarlet,  gold-barred 
jackets  riding  as  postilions  before  wagons  piled  with 
golden  grain.  It  seems  as  though  troops  were  for- 
ever marching  past  the  obelisk  in  the  Old  Market, 
between  the  noble  portal  of  the  castle  and  the  nobler 
dome  of  Schinkel's  Church  of  St.  Nicholas.  And 
they  step  out  as  though  aware  of  being  important 
and  harmonious  elements  of  the  composition. 

In  the  Garrison  Church,  near  the  barracks  which 
adjoin  the  Lustgarten,  is  the  tomb  of  Frederick  the 
Great.  His  will  left  directions  that  he  be  buried 
with  his  favorite  dog  on  the  terrace  before  Sans 
Souci ;  but  his  successor  cruelly  buried  him  in  church 
beside  his  cruel  father.  When  Napoleon  visited  the 
place,  he  bowed  the  knee  and  exclaimed,  "If  this  one 
were  alive,  I  should  not  now  be  here."  Then  he 
stole  the  conqueror's  sword,  which  hung  above  the 
grave.  The  German  people  have  never  forgiven 
this  outrage,  and,  by  way  of  reparation,  have  hung 
the  church  with  mellow  old  standards  captured  from 
French  armies.  When  the  first  emperor  placed  his 
trophies  there  he  exclaimed:  "God  was  with  us.  His 
alone  is  the  glory."  In  the  royal  vault  one  evening 
in  1805,  Frederick  William  III  and  Alexander  I  of 

«  115 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Russia  sealed  their  friendship  and  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  the  Russo-German  Alliance. 

On  its  way  to  Sans  Souci,  the  tram  passes  the 
Wilhelms-Platz,  an  eloquent  testimony  to  the  prac- 
tical nature  of  old  Frederick  William  I.  This  was 
the  site  of  the  Lazy  Lake,  and  the  picturesque  canal 
was  dug  to  drain  it;  but  the  lake  was  too  lazy  even 
for  canal  adventures,  and  had  to  be  filled  in,  a  labor 
of  years.  For  the  greater  part  of  his  reign  Fred- 
erick William  I  struggled  obstinately  with  this  prob- 
lem, but  the  site  of  the  Lazy  Lake  could  not  be 
called  terra  firma  until  his  son  brought  more  modern 
methods  to  bear  on  it. 

The  domestic  architecture  of  Potsdam  may  best 
be  studied  in  the  Nauener,  Charlotten,  and  Hoditz 
Strassen.  Under  the  two  soldier-kings,  even  the 
houses  were  forced  into  uniform,  and  one  may  see 
whole  streets  of  quaint,  two-storied  facades,  with 
baldachined  windows  and  tall  classical  columns 
topped  by  putti  and  plump  urns  of  plenty,  a  dig- 
nified style,  staid  and  self-important  perhaps,  yet 
gracious  and  in  perfect  harmony  with  its  setting. 

As  one  goes  westward,  farther  and  farther  from 
the  asperities  of  Berlin,  the  atmosphere  grows 
friendlier,  and,  as  it  seems,  less  Prussian,  until — 
wonder  of  wonders!— there  appears  a  real  Italian 
campanile. 

116 


TlIU  OLD  MAKKI-T 


POTSDAM 

That  lover  of  Italy,  Frederick  William  IV, 
modeled  the  Church  of  Peace  after  the  Roman  San 
Clemente,  with  a  bell-tower  copied  after  Santa 
Maria  in  Cosmedin.  The  corner-stone  was  laid  on 
the  centenary  of  Sans  Souci,  and  the  king  wrote  to 
Bishop  Eylert: 

After  much  thought,  I  will  name  the  new  suburban 
church  "Christ  Church"  or  "Church  of  Peace."  A  church 
belonging  to  the  grounds  of  a  palace  that  bears  the  name 
"Sans  Souci,"  "Care-free,"  strikes  me  as  suitable  to  dedicate 
to  the  eternal  Prince  of  Peace;  and  so  to  confront — or,  bet- 
ter still,  to  contrast — the  worldly  negative  "Care-free"  with 
the  spiritually  positive  "Peace." 

Here  in  the  mausoleum  the  Emperor  Freder- 
ick III  (father  of  the  present  Emperor)  lies  in  a 
sarcophagus  of  Greek  marble  under  a  dome  of  Vene- 
tian mosaic.  But  the  cloisters  are  best  of  all.  To 
come  suddenly  upon  such  cloisters  in  Prussia  is  as 
though  an  arctic  explorer  should  stumble  upon  "a 
beaker  full  of  the  warm  south." 

Near  the  mausoleum  entrance  are  Ranch's 
"Moses"  and  Thorwaldsen's  "Christ,"  the  latter  a 
replica  of  the  dominant  figure  in  the  Frue  Kirke 
in  Copenhagen. 

But  one  forgets  them  in  looking  out  between  the 
columns  of  the  ivied  cloisters  to  the  pools,  the  gay, 
shadow-flecked  turf,  and  the  May  foliage  of  Sans 

119 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Souci.  I  shall  never  forget  the  morning  I  first  en- 
tered those  gardens.  Rhododendrons  were  every- 
where in  royal  purple,  lavender,  old  rose,  and  white. 
There  were  fuchsias  and  honeysuckles  among  cop- 
per-beeches that  grew  like  single,  huge,  austere 
flowers.  There  were  effective  arrangements  of  haw- 
thorn, and  the  lindens  were  in  full  flower.  Little 
daisies  made  specks  of  brightness  on  the  springy, 
swarded  banks  of  a  lazy  brook,  where  willows 
drooped  over  drowsing  lily-pads.  There  were  rose- 
bushes as  tall  as  Frederick  William's  grenadiers, 
who  used  to  grow  vegetables  on  the  very  spot  where 
a  goat-footed  marble  Marsyas  now  capered  gaily  to 
save  his  skin,  among  clouds  of  lilac  and  great,  bloom- 
ing fruit-trees.  Delightfully  un-Prussian  gardeners 
snored  under  sacking  in  the  shade,  and  their  new- 
mown  grass  lay  heaped  informally  by  them  on  the 
walks.  The  branches  were  full  of  bird-song,  and 
the  thought  came  that  the  musical  Frederick  must 
have  stocked  his  gardens  with  songsters  as  he  stocked 
his  palaces  with  philosophers  and  painters  and  mu- 
sicians. May  the  birds  of  Sans  Souci  prove  as  hardy 
a  race  as  the  Hohenzollerns  themselves! 

The  grounds  were  full  of  surprises.  I  came  upon 
masses  of  fern  backed  by  feathery  spruces,  dwarf 
cypresses,  and  curious,  glistening  trees  that  crawled 
on  the  ground,  smothered  in  ivy. 

120 


ALLEY  IN  SANS  SULCI  I'ARK 


POTSDAM 

At  three,  the  old  gardeners  whom  I  had  left  snor- 
ing at  eleven  were  still  making  music  in  the  shade, 
and  I  rejoiced  to  find  that  here  the  discipline  of  the 
land  was  suitably  relaxed. 

Berlin  is  strictly  business  to  the  HohenzoUerns ; 
but  they  do  not  let  that  grim  affair  spoil  the  sweet- 
ness of  Potsdam.  The  people  seem  human  and 
sympathetic,  the  martial  statuary  gentle  and  ama- 
teurish after  the  ferocity  of  Berlin.  Even  the  four 
Romans  about  one  of  the  fountains  who  are  hurry- 
ing away  with  the  four  Sabines  are  doing  it  like 
gentlemen,  and  the  frowns  of  the  ladies  are  palpably 
assumed.  A  lion  and  a  tiger,  both  on  the  verge  of 
purring,  watch  you  as  you  climb  toward  an  arch 
surmounted  by  the  most  genial  eagle  in  the  world. 
Beside  the  main  fountain  there  is  a  statue  of  Mars 
shying  a  little  javelin.  His  dog-like  wolf  is  joy- 
ously on  the  bound  to  retrieve  it,  and  you  fancy  that 
the  man  of  might  is  about  to  wink  at  Mercury,  who 
is  placidly  tying  his  winged  shoes  over  beyond  the 
goldfishes,  and  at  Diana,  who  is  taking  a  roguish 
ride  on  an  inimitable  dragon. 

The  Germans  are  an  out-of-door  people,  and  this 
place  is  a  continual  rendezvous  for  picnics.  From 
the  splendid  fountain  little  Noah's-ark  evergreens 
run  uphill  to  my  favorite  bit  of  rococo.  With  a 
childish  gravity  Sans  Souci,  in  pale  orange,  sits  up 

123 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

there  above  its  enormous  terraces,  with  its  flat, 
water-green  cupola  and  its  dear,  absurd  statues, 
which  one  can  take  no  more  seriously  than  an  idyl 
of  Lancret  or  a  fete  of  Watteau.  I  shall  always 
see  it  as  in  that  first  glimpse,  with  a  foreground  of 
happy  goldfish  and  Germans,  through  a  veil  of 
iridescent  spray,  and  flanked  by  masses  of  foliage. 
I  particularly  like  Carlyle's  account  of  the  tiny 
palace : 

One  of  the  most  characteristic  traits,  extensively  sym- 
bolical of  Friedrich's  intentions  and  outlooks  at  this  Epoch, 
is  his  installing  of  himself  in  the  little  Dwelling-House, 
which  has  since  become  so  celebrated  under  the  name  of 
Sans-Souci.  The  plan  of  Sans-Souci, — an  elegant  com- 
modious little  "Country  Box,"  quite  of  modest  pretensions, 
one  story  high ;  on  the  pleasant  Hill-top  near  Potsdam,  with 
other  little  green  Hills,  and  pleasant  views  of  land  and 
water,  all  round, — had  been  sketched  in  part  by  Friedrich 
himself;  and  the  diggings  and  terracings  of  the  Hillside 
were  just  beginning,  when  he  quitted  for  the  Last  War. 
(Second  Silesian.)  April  14,  1745.  .  .  .  the  foundation- 
stone  was  laid  (Knobelsdorff  being  architect,)  .  .  .  and  the 
work,  which  had  been  steadily  proceeding  while  the  Master 
struggled  in  those  dangerous  battles  and  adventures  far 
away  from  it,  was  in  good  forwardness  at  his  return.  An 
object  of  cheerful  interest  to  him ;  prophetic  of  calmer  years 
ahead. 

It  was  not  till  May  1747,  that  the  formal  occupation  took 
place.  .  .  .  For  the  next  Forty  Years,  especially  as  years 
advanced,  he  spent  the  most  of  his  days  and  nights  in  this 
little  Mansion;  which  became  more  and  more  his  favourite 

124 


Tim  GKhAT  lUU.NTAIN  IN  SANS  SOUCI  PARK,  WITH   TIIU  THKKACLS  AND 
PALACE  IN  THE  UACKGKUUND 


POTSDAM 

retreat,  whenever  the  noises  and  scenic  etiquettes  were  not 
inexorable.  "Sans-Souci";  which  we  may  translate  "No- 
Bother."  A  busy  place  this  too,  but  of  the  quiet  kind; 
and  more  a  home  to  him  than  any  of  the  Three  fine  Palaces 
(ultimately  Four),  which  lay  always  waiting  for  him  in  the 
neighborhood.   .   .  . 

Certainly  it  is  a  significant  feature  of  Friedrich ;  and  dis- 
closes the  inborn  proclivity  he  had  to  retirement,  to  study 
and  reflection,  as  the  chosen  element  of  human  life.  Why 
he  fell  upon  so  ambitious  a  title  for  his  Royal  Cottage.'' 
"A^o-Bother"  was  not  practically  a  thing  he,  of  all  men, 
could  consider  possible  in  this  world :  at  the  utmost  perhaps, 
by  good  care,  "Less-Bother !"  The  name,  it  appears,  came 
by  accident.  He  had  prepared  his  Tomb,  and  various 
Tombs,  in  the  skirts  of  this  new  Cottage:  looking  at  these, 
as  the  building  of  them  went  on,  he  was  heard  to  say,  one 
day  (Spring  1746),  D'Argens  strolling  beside  him:  "Out, 
alors  je  serai  sans  souci  (Once  there,  one  will  be  out  of 
bother)  !"  A  saying  which  was  rumoured  of,  and  repeated 
in  society,  being  by  such  a  man.  Out  of  which  rumour  in 
society,  and  the  evident  aim  of  the  Cottage  Royal,  there 
was  gradually  born,  as  Venus  from  the  froth  of  the  sea, 
this  name,  "Sans-Souci." 

The  lines  of  orange-trees  before  the  castle  recall 
a  celebrated  flash  of  diplomacy.  Frederick  once 
complained  to  the  French  ambassador  that  his 
oranges  did  not  thrive  in  such  a  cold  climate.  This 
was  so  painfully  evident  as  to  give  the  courtier  a  bad 
moment.  Then  he  answered:  "Your  Majesty  may 
at  least  console  himself  with  the  thought  that  how- 

127 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

ever  it  may  be  with  your  orange-trees,  your  laurels 
can  never  fade." 

The  guide  through  this  toy  palace  was  unfor- 
tunately of  the  aggravated  Berlin  type.  But  even 
he  could  not  entirely  spoil  one's  pleasure  in  the 
mementos  of  this  mighty  age  and  in  the  pure  French 
style  of  the  decoration,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  ex- 
amples of  rococo  art  in  the  land.  I  longed  to  shut 
the  door  upon  the  fellow  and  his  guttural  voice,  and 
dream  of  the  great  little  man  who  talked  such  bad 
German  and  of  the  Versailles  of  his  ideals. 

Scattered  through  the  rooms  are  many  of  the 
better  paintings  of  the  Watteau  school,  and  the 
library  is  a  veritable  gem  of  pure  Louis  Quinze 
style,  with  French  classics  and  a  fine  bust  of  Homer. 

Voltaire's  apartment  throws  light  on  the  relations 
between  the  king  and  the  philosopher,  for  Freder- 
ick himself  designed  the  decorations.  There  are 
birds  of  passage  on  the  walls  to  symbolize  Voltaire's 
love  of  travel,  peacocks  for  his  vanity,  monkeys  for 
his  homeliness,  squirrels  for  his  love  of  dainties,  and 
parrots  for  his  curiosity.  To  crown  all,  scenes  from 
the  fables  of  La  Fontaine  are  embroidered  on  the 
upholstery,  to  remind  him  of  the  author  he  most 
detested.  This  is  a  faint  but  significant  echo  of 
the  heartless  generation  before,  the  days  of  Gund- 
ling's  bear-baiting. 

128 


POTSDAM 

In  the  music-room  are  the  king's  spinet  and  music- 
stand,  with  an  autograph  flute  sonata  by  his  master 
Quantz,  and  the  clock  that  is  said  to  have  stopped 
when  Frederick's  life  ran  down — at  twenty  minutes 
past  two  on  the  morning  of  August  17,  1786. 

In  his  last  days  old  Fritz  was  fond  of  sitting  on 
the  terrace  outside,  looking  upon  the  beauty  he  had 
created  out  of  a  barren  hillside.  And  one  after- 
noon, as  he  gazed  into  the  sun,  he  was  heard  to  mur- 
mur, "Perhaps  I  shall  be  nearer  thee  soon."  In  the 
chamber  where  he  died  stands  Magnussen's  marble 
of  him  in  his  last  moments.  He  is  sitting  with  his 
favorite  dog,  looking  back  with  keen,  weary  eyes 
upon  his  life,  as  though  not  wholly  dissatisfied,  but 
content  not  to  try  it  again.  On  his  last  midnight  he 
noticed  the  dog  shivering  with  cold.  "Throw  a  quilt 
over  it!"  he  commanded.  His  last  utterance  came 
after  a  severe  fit  of  choking:  "La  montagne  est  pas- 
see;  nous  irons  mieux."  ("The  mountain  is  passed; 
we  shall  go  better  now.") 

The  picture-gallery,  with  a  few  good  Dutch  paint- 
ings, lies  on  one  side  of  the  castle,  balanced  on  the 
other  by  the  famous  mill  of  Sans  Souci. 

History — or  more  probably  legend — relates  that 
Frederick  coveted  the  mill,  and  Avhen  the  miller 
refused  to  sell,  threatened  angrily  to  bring  suit. 
"Ah,"  retorted  the  miller,  "but  there  are  still  judges 

129 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

in  Berlin!"  and  he  kept  his  mill.  It  remains  one  of 
the  most  delightful  landmarks  of  Potsdam.  In  the 
Sicilian  Garden  below,  in  an  open  space  surrounded 
by  beechen  arbors,  stands  a  modern  Apollo  amid 
scarlet  geraniums.  I  know  not  whether  the  humor 
was  conscious  or  unconscious  that  placed  there  the 
god  of  war  and  music  and  poetry,  bending  his  brazen 
bow  toward  the  mill,  symbolizing  the  attitude  of 
his  eighteenth -century  successor  and  viewed  from 
the  terrace  above  by  judicial  white  philosophers. 

Near  the  obelisk  outside  the  main  gate  is  a  delight- 
ful wooded  spot  looking  over  a  sheet  of  water  to  the 
Italian  cloisters,  a  corner  where  nurses  in  Spreewald 
costume  like  to  congregate. 

Taking  a  southern  route  through  the  outskirts  of 
town  to  the  New  Palace,  I  came  upon  such  homely 
scenes  as  are  dear  to  the  dweller  in  cities.  An  old 
man  was  making  rope  in  a  field  where  women  were 
hoeing;  barefoot  peasant  girls  in  bright  rags  were 
filling  a  flat-car  with  sand ;  behind  some  crazy  palings 
near  a  thread  of  brook  I  saw  a  little  brother  and 
sister  holding  a  tow-headed  baby  above  a  fence  to 
compete  in  a  crowing  contest  with  an  appreciative 
and  lusty  rooster. 

Charlottenhof,  an  Italian  villa  built  by  Schinkel 
for  Frederick  William  IV,  lies  in  a  wilder  stretch 
of  Sans  Souci  park,  a  charmingly  effective  bit  of 

130 


'AiMiii  j  J/ ■!  "f  rjui  ■■  laa. 


■-Sv;.-. 


'i^  I. 


'''^=5Sg^#^«^ 


Honf  Hvrrrnjnn 


'  '""  1    ^i'  ("  riiiT  ''••  'i*   i^rni  i  i    1  T 


■7?rf*'''_'jMumijjj|i»j:i.j,'»jiji*a»<i-; 


THE  STATUE  OF  THE  ARCHER  AND  THE  OLD  MILL 


POTSDAM 

architecture,  with  its  loggia  and  formal  garden.  It 
is  a  cabinet  of  curiosities  and  of  antiques,  many  of 
which  the  king  excavated  in  Italy.  Here  Alexander 
von  Humboldt  wrote  his  "Cosmos." 

The  New  Palace  was  built  by  Frederick  the  Great 
after  the  Seven  Years'  War,  in  a  spirit  of  bravado, 
to  show  the  nations  that  fighting  had  not  drained  his 
purse.  It  is  one  of  the  most  elaborate  efforts  of 
later  baroque  art.  The  creamy  sandstone  pilasters 
and  statuary,  the  round,  high  windows  with  their 
putti,  are  most  effective  against  the  light  brick  of  the 
fa9ade.  The  effect  is  more  enjoyable  from  among 
the  distant  orange-trees  of  the  eastern  garden,  where 
the  coarseness  of  the  too  abundant  statues  does  not 
intrude.  It  is  better  simply  to  be  aware  of  the  viva- 
cious or  sentimental  poses  outlined  against  the  mel- 
lowing sky  of  late  afternoon,  and  the  pleasant  har- 
mony of  the  whole,  capped  judiciously  by  the  dusky, 
bronze  dome.  On  the  western  side  this  dome  has 
a  lighter  patina,  which  does  not  blend  so  well  with 
the  richer  ornamentation  of  the  winged  facade.  But 
the  outbuildings  called  Communs  balance  the  palace 
picturesquely,  with  their  ivied  walls  and  the  neg- 
lected pavements  of  the  colonnades,  between  the 
mossy  stones  of  which  the  rank,  assertive  green  of 
earth  presses  upward.  Here  the  statues,  unlike 
their  less  fortunate  brethren,  look  as  though  they 

133 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

had  never  seen  soap,  and  friendly  trees  grow  close 
about  them.  From  here  there  are  grandly  sweeping 
vistas  north  and  south,  which  give  an  idea  of  the  im- 
mensity of  the  park.  It  is  said  that  its  maintenance 
costs  the  Emperor  $150,000  a  year. 

The  New  Palace  has  200  rooms,  the  decoration  of 
which  rivals  the  exuberant  fantasy  of  Sans  Souci, 
but  gives  only  faint  echoes  of  its  elegance.  For  the 
one  is  French  through  and  through,  the  other  only 
an  excellent  German  imitation.  But  the  New 
Palace  contains  the  best  canvas  that  I  have  ever  seen 
in  a  HohenzoUern  residence,  an  "Adoration  of  the 
Magi"  in  Rubens's  least  worldly  style — a  picture 
akin  in  spirit  to  the  "Last  Supper"  in  the  Brera  at 
Milan. 

The  Orangery  is  a  decorative  building  resembling 
the  belvedere  on  the  Pfingstberg,  filled  with  unim- 
portant sculpture  and  copies  of  Raphael,  and  topped 
with  towers  that  give  an  incomparable  view  of  the 
gardens.  On  the  terrace  are  the  Chinese  astro- 
nomical instruments  which  Germany  appropriated 
during  the  Boxer  uprising,  remarkable  examples  of 
Eastern  bronze-casting  and  of  Western  greed. 

I  found  the  country  north  of  Sans  Souci  delight- 
ful, and  the  message  of  the  big  forget-me-nots  that 
studded  the  grass  on  the  way  to  the  Ruinenberg  was 
quite  redundant.     As  I  sat  in  the  woods  thinking  it 

134 


b 

"i 


:  \'t> 


r«2saf:i'*y--i; 


VIEW  OF    THE  PALACE  Of  SANS  SOUCl  FROM  Tllli   Kl  IMCNBIiRG 


THE   Kl'lNENliHRG,  THE  RUINS  BUII-T  BY   IREDERICK 
TIH;  r,KI-:AT  NORTH  OE  SANS  SOUCl 


POTSDAM 

all  over,  a  wanderer  went  strolling  by,  actually  draw- 
ing real  music  from  that  antimusical  instrument,  the 
harmonica.  And  the  whole  place  was  alive  with  the 
spirit  of  his  art. 

Above,  at  the  end  of  a  meadow,  loomed  the  arti- 
ficial ruins  which  Frederick  had  built.  It  struck  me 
as  pathetic  that  the  man  who  had  unwillingly  made 
so  many  modern  ruins  should  have  felt  a  craving 
for  ancient  ones.  There  were  three  Roman  col- 
umns, with  a  fragment  of  entablature  from  which 
young  saplings  sprouted;  a  dwarfed  pyramid  of 
Cestius,  a  little  round  temple,  a  tower,  and  a  seg- 
ment of  amphitheater  about  a  basin  of  water  which 
the  king  had  intended  as  the  scene  of  such  naval 
battles  as  the  Colosseum  once  staged. 

The  bloom  of  a  great  tree  lay  like  snow  on  the 
surface,  like  eider-down  on  the  earth.  Ever  since 
coming  upon  that  Roman  campanile  below,  I  had 
been  breathing  the  atmosphere  of  Latin  lands,  and 
even  the  exotic  Berlin  lackey  had  not  made  me  quite 
realize  where  I  was.  I  had  just  walked  in  a 
meadow  that  might  have  been  trod  bj''  the  feet  of  the 
Gracchi  and  Brutus  to  a  ruin  that  might  have  stood 
below  the  Palatine  Hill.  It  remained  for  the  height 
of  the  tower,  with  its  broader  outlook,  to  restore  me 
gradually  to  the  German  atmosphere. 

Southeastward  lay  Potsdam,  with  its  picturesque 

137 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

steeples  and  cupolas,  and,  across  the  sparkling  rib- 
bon of  river,  the  half-timbered  walls  of  the  military 
academy.  Southward,  beyond  the  campanile,  spread 
the  reaches  of  the  Havel,  flecked  with  the  white 
wings  of  yachts.  In  the  foreground  stood  the  little 
house  where  Frederick  had  hoped  to  find  peace,  and 
his  pathetic  ruins,  with  their  snowy  sheet  of  water. 
In  the  southwest,  over  a  green,  billowy  field  of  grain 
and  an  ocean  of  boughs,  rose  three  towers  and  the 
dome  of  the  New  Palace.  Northward,  like  a  turgid 
lake,  spread  the  wastes  of  the  parade-ground.  On 
the  horizon  were  etched  the  spires  of  Spandau. 
While  to  the  northeast,  beyond  the  fair  waters  of 
three  lakes  and  the  long  sweep  of  the  Grunewald, 
I  saw,  or  seemed  to  see,  a  huge,  dark  dome  domi- 
nating a  huge,  dark  Berlin,  even  as,  viewed  from 
Tivoli  across  the  Campagna,  St.  Peter's  dominates 
the  Eternal  City. 


138 


THE  BROAD  BRIDGE 


IV 


BRUNSWICK-THE  TOWN  OF  TYLL 
EULENSPIEGEL 

N  a  tiny  square  called  the  Backerklint, 
surrounded  by  glamourous,  half-timbered 
houses  as  bright  with  color  as  they  were 
in  the  Middle  Ages,  there  plays  a  unique 
fountain.  An  apprentice  youth  sits  above 
the  bowl,  balancing  a  slipper  on  his  toes  and  smil- 
ing whimsically  down  at  a  semicircle  of  spouting 
monkeys  and  owls.  To  the  observant  stranger  it 
seems  a  curious  coincidence  that  the  window  of  the 
crooked  old  bake-shop  hard  by  should  be  occupied 
by  gingerbread  owls  and  monkeys  with  currant  eyes. 
But  presently  he  discovers  the  inscription  on  the 
back  of  the  fountain : 

Dem  lustigen  Gesellen 

Till  Eulenspiegel 
dort  errichtet  wo  er  die 
Eulen  und  Meerkatzen  buk 
Erdacht  und  gemacht  von 
Arnold  Kramer 
aus  Wolfenbiittel 
141 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

(To  the  jolly  chap 

Tyll  Eulenspiegel 

erected  in  the  place  where  he 

baked  the  owls  and  the  long-tailed  monkeys 

Thought  out  and  wrought  out  by 

Arnold  Kramer 

of  Wolfenbuttel) 


Americans  know  of  this  medieval  hero  chiefly 
through  the  great  tone-poem  by  Richard  Strauss, 
and  by  his  lesser  descendants,  such  as  Max  und 
Moritz,  and  Peck's  Bad  Boy.  But  his  name  is  a 
mighty  one  in  Germany,  and  may  almost  take  rank 
with  graver  heroes  such  as  Tannhauser  and  the  Wan- 
dering Jew.  For  he  was  the  first  Teutonic  humorist, 
a  sort  of  Socrates  turned  practical  joker,  who  always 
affected  naivete  and  always  turned  the  laugh  upon 
the  other  fellow.  "To  few  mortals,"  wrote  Carlyle, 
"has  it  been  granted  to  earn  such  a  place  in  universal 
history." 

Tyll  was  born  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth 
century  in  the  province  of  Brunswick,  and  played 
many  of  his  most  famous  pranks  near  the  spot  where 
he  now  sits,  more  brazen  than  ever,  laughing  at  the 
droll  little  creatures  he  once  baked,  to  the  scandal  of 
the  good  baker,  his  master,  in  the  old  shop  close  at 
hand.  Those  liveliest  of  German  children,  the 
young  Brunswickers,  are  never  tired  of  poking  their 

142 


BRUNSWICK 

fingers  into  the  monkeys'  mouths  and  squirting  the 
water  at  one  another.  Tyll  is  the  last  to  say  them 
nay,  and  always  seems  vengeful  whenever  the  police- 
man comes  to  spoil  sport.  The  monkeys  are  notice- 
ably more  popular  than  the  owls,  and  there  is  some- 
thing almost  pathetic  in  their  bright  little  skulls, 
from  which  the  patina  has  already  been  rubbed  by 
the  caressing  hands  of  countless  children. 

Perhaps  the  chief  reason  why  the  Brunswickers  are 
the  only  Germans  who  have  thus  honored  Tyll  is  that 
they  feel  an  affinity  for  him.  At  any  rate,  they  im- 
pressed me  as  having  a  greater  love  of  practical  fun 
and  a  more  genuine  Low- Saxon  humor  than  any 
other  Germans  of  my  acquaintance.  Nowhere  else 
have  I  been  so  often  accosted  on  the  streets,  and  by 
such  a  variety  of  people.  They  seem  to  be  fairly 
bubbling  with  mischief.  They  have  not  the  malicious, 
cutting  satire  of  Berlin,  nor  the  polished  wit  of  Dres- 
den; not  the  uncouth  pleasantry  of  Silesia,  nor  the 
effervescence  of  the  Rhine,  nor  the  mellow,  hearty, 
kindly  humor  of  Bavaria.  Brunswick  is  like  a  mild 
but  continuous  hazing  party.  The  people  are  amaz- 
ingly quick  with  their  tongues.  You  turn  a  corner 
in  a  long  mackintosh,  and  are  instantly  hailed  by  a 
group  of  burghers  with,  "Well,  my  Mantle-Mister!" 
You  pass  a  group  of  middle-class  girls  on  a  bridge. 

"Too  tall  for  me!"  cries  one. 

^  143 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

"Down  at  the  heel,  oh,  shockingly!"  remarks  an- 
other. 

"Think  he  understands?" 

'^Jawohl.     See  how  fast  he  runs  away!" 

In  these  free-and-easy  manners  it  is  not  difficult 
to  trace  the  Brunswicker's  inherent  democracy. 

His  humor,  like  Tyll's,  inclines  toward  terseness 
and  point.  He  is  fond  of  such  epigrams  as  the 
following : 

"Every  beginning  is  hard,"  said  the  young  thief.  Then 
he  stole  an  anvil. 

"I  punish  my  wife  only  with  good  words,"  said  Lehmann. 
Then  he  threw  the  hymn-book  at  her  head. 

They  are  fond  of  making  so-called  "neighbor- 
rhymes,"  in  which  the  peculiarities  of  each  house- 
holder in  a  given  street  are  tersely  hit  off  with  a  win- 
ning combination  of  sharpness  and  shrewd  geniality 
which  neatly  characterizes  the  people  of  Brunswick. 

Naturally  these  affinities  of  the  medieval  Tyll  are 
deeply  romantic  and  superstitious  folk.  And  they 
come  honestly  by  the  quality ;  for  the  oldest  Teutonic 
myths,  like  that  of  Walpurgis  Night,  had  their 
origin  in  the  region  north  of  the  Harz.  And  it  is  a 
welcome  thought  that  our  Anglo-Saxon  appetite  for 
the  romantic  and  the  picturesque  may  be  due  in  part 
to  inherited  remnants  of  exactly  such  ancient  beliefs 

144 


BRUNSWICK 

as  are  still  alive  in  the  province  and  the  city  of 
Brunswick. 

The  people  believe  to-day  in  vampires.  They 
shut  the  door  after  the  outgoing  coffin  so  that  the 
dead  may  not  return  and  work  mischief.  Still  they 
place  a  coin  in  the  dead  hand  to  pay  for  the  outward 
journey,— that  coin  of  Charon  which  seems  to  run 
through  all  historj^— and  intone  this  formula: 

Ik  gewe  dik  dat  dinige, 
Blif  mik  von  den  minigen. 

( I  give  thee  what  is  thine ; 
Oh,  spare  thou  what  is  mine.) 

There  are  countless  tales  current  in  Brunswick,  of 
wailing  women  with  eyes  of  fire,  the  harbingers  of 
death;  of  the  World  Dog,  who  appears  in  clanking 
chains  every  seven  years;  of  will-o'-the-wisps,  who 
hover  over  burning  gold.  It  is  a  matter  of  common 
knowledge  that  he  who  moves  a  boundary-stone  must 
wander  about  headless  after  death.  Was  it  not  re- 
cently that  a  Brunswicker  met  his  former  pastor  at 
midnight  in  a  forest?  The  reverend  gentleman  car- 
ried his  head  under  one  arm,  but  with  the  other  he 
gave  his  late  parishioner  such  a  box  on  the  ear  that 
he  never  ventured  out  again  after  dark. 

Until  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  there 
were  "Fire-riders"  in  Brunswick,  whose  function  it 

145 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

was  to  mount  a  horse  at  the  outbreak  of  fire,  and  with 
a  saucer  of  salt  in  hand  gallop  thrice  around  the 
flames,  chanting  this  magic  formula: 

Feuer,  du  heisse  Flamm', 

Dir  gebeut  Jesus  Christ,  der  wahre  Mann, 

Das  du  sollst  stille  steh'n 

Und  nicht  weiter  geh'n. 

Im  Namen  des  Vaters,  etc. 

(Fire,  you  fervid  flame, 

Christ  Jesus,  that  true  Man,  demands  this  same: 

That  you  stand  still  yonder 

And  no  further  wander. 

In  the  Name  of  the  Father,  etc.) 

The  folk  believe  that  people  whose  eyebrows  meet 
become  Marten  at  night  and  oppress  the  breasts  of 
sleepers.  They  believe  in  the  Werwolf,  in  the  Wild 
Hunter,  in  gnomes  and  giants;  and  in  the  witches 
who  ride  on  pitchforks,  broomsticks,  goats,  and  swine 
to  their  unhallowed  tryst  on  the  Brocken  every  Wal- 
purgis  Night.  Just  before  her  head  was  cut  off  a 
local  witch  once  confessed  that  she  had  "shut  up  a 
thief  in  a  gimlet-hole  in  the  foul  fiend's  name,  so  that 
the  fellow  peeped  like  a  swarm  of  mice" ;  and  to  this 
day  the  witches  of  Brunswick  are  keeping  up  their 
grand  old  traditions. 

The  devil  is  a  familiar  character,  and  one  often 
hears : 

146 


BRUNSWICK 

Wenn't  rant  und  de  sunne   schint,  dann  hat  de  duwel 
hochtlt. 

(When  it  rains  and  the  sun  shines,  the  devil  is  getting 
married.) 

And  there  is  a  remarkably  circumstantial  legend  of 
how  the  devil  married  his  grandmother  at  midnight 
in  a  hall  in  Brunswick,  leaving  behind  him  a  costly 
carpet  and  a  ring  worth  two  thousand  ducats. 
People  believe  that  he  flies  away  with  atheists,  and 
that  on  February  15,  1781,  his  victim  was  no  less  a 
person  than  the  great  Lessing.  For  they  always 
thought  of  their  local  poet  and  philosopher  as  an 
atheist,  harder  than  steel,  who  was  condemned  to 
glow  in  the  eternal  fires.  Indeed,  there  is  a  rhyme 
about  this  painful  episode,  which  the  children  sing 
at  play: 

De  duwel  kam  emal  up  eren 
Un  wull  he  gem  en  blanksmit  weren. 
Doch  harr  he  weder  tinn  noch  messing, 
Drum  nam  he  den  professor  Lessing. 

The  translation  must  be  free : 

Once  on  a  time  the  devil  came 
And  wished  to  try  the  blacksmith  game. 
But  lack  of  metal  kept  him  guessing 
Until  he  took  Professor  Lessing. 

Finally,  lest  it  should  be  imagined  that  such  beliefs 
and  customs  are  no  longer  representative  of  modern 

147 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Brunswick,  let  us  take  an  instance  from  the  police 
records  of  1897.  At  two  o'clock  on  the  morning  of 
January  19,  Gottlieb  Kitzke,  a  servant,  and  Fritz 
Krodel,  a  coachman,  were  arrested  in  the  Wolfen- 
biittler-Strasse  because  they  answered  the  night- 
watch  evasively.  It  came  out  in  the  examination 
that  they  had  been  trying  to  conjure  up  his  Satanic 
majesty.  They  had  carried  to  a  field  outside  the 
city  a  sack  of  firewood,  a  number  of  wax  candles,  a 
spirit-lamp,  and  a  cornucopia  of  salt.  They  had 
lighted  the  fire,  the  candles  and  the  lamp,  had  offered 
up  the  salt  on  the  latter,  and  had  prayed  fervidly  for 
an  hour;  but  no  devil!  The  wood  burned  up,  the 
candles  down;  but  still  no  devil.  Loud  recrimina- 
tions on  the  way  home  led  to  their  arrest.  In  Krodel's 
pocket  was  found  a  "Book  of  Spirits."  The  title- 
page  ran  as  follows : 

The  Seven-sealed  Book  of  the  Greatest  Secrets: 

Secret  Art  School  of  Magic  Wonder-forces, 

Angel-help  for  Defense  and  Protection  at  Direst  Need. 

The  Book  of  Holy  Salt, 

The  True  Fiery  Dragon. 

There  was  a  book-mark  at  the  chapter  on  How  to 
Conjure  up  Lucifer. 

There  are  still  other  points  of  resemblance  be- 
tween the  city  and  Tyll  Eulenspiegel.  Brunswick 
liked  Tyll  because  he  was  no  respecter  of  persons. 

148 


BKUNSWICK 

Tyll  liked  Brunswick  for  the  same  reason.  Indeed, 
it  is  not  strange  that  the  place  should  be  so  demo- 
cratic, for  it  lies  in  that  cradle  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race  between  the  Harz  Mountains,  the  Elbe,  and  the 
Rhine  and  has  obstinately  preserved  the  old  breed 
and  the  old  speech.  It  has  always  been  plebeian  in 
spirit,  and  was  one  of  the  first  Northern  communities 
to  fight  for  democracy— a  fight  prolonged  in  vain  for 
four  centuries.  Because  it  is  such  an  excellent  type 
of  a  Low-German  city,  it  is  a  shame  that  the  late 
invasion  of  the  High-German  tongue  should  have 
"restored"  its  mellow  Saxon  name  of  "Brunswyk" 
into  "Braunschweig." 

But  its  medieval  democratic  spirit  has  never  been 
"restored"  away  from  those  incomparable  streets, 
and  to  this  day  fills  many  of  the  public  buildings 
with  its  poetry.  The  Rathaus  of  the  Old-Town  was 
designed  with  a  true  feeling  for  municipal  propor- 
tion so  that  it  might  not  overpower  its  private  neigh- 
bors; while  the  Gewandhaus  was  influenced  even 
further  by  them,  for  it  shows  traces  of  the  compact- 
ness and  conservatism  of  timber  construction. 

Each  of  these,  is  a  type  of  the  municipal  archi- 
tecture of  its  period.  The  richness  and  interest  of 
the  Rathaus  come  wholly  from  a  two-storied  Gothic 
colonnade,  filled  with  tracery  and  gargoyles  and 
Saxon  princes  under  delicate  baldachins.     It  is  a 

151 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

happy  instance  of  that  self-restraint,  unusual  in  Ger- 
many, which  has  made  poems  of  Brunswick's  wind- 
ing streets.  In  these  the  builders  would  allow  no 
one  house  to  lord  it  over  the  others,  and  here  in  the 
Rathaus  the  entire  effect  comes  from  a  tenfold  repe- 
tition of  one  theme. 

The  Gewandhaus,  as  it  looks  down  the  sweep  of 
the  Post-Strasse,  seems  to  fuse  in  itself  all  the  ele- 
ments of  the  German  Renaissance — the  Italian's 
fondness  for  a  classical  play  of  proportion,  his  con- 
servative adherence  to  certain  medieval  effects,  and 
the  reckless  passion  of  the  Low  Countries  for  pic- 
turesque, unstructural  ornament.  But  the  building 
has  a  lightness  and  a  hint  of  gaiety  which  remind  one 
that  Brunswick,  lying  just  beyond  the  Westphalian 
border,  is  touched  by  the  happy  spirit  of  the  Harz 
and  of  Thuringia.  And  one  has  the  impulse  to 
climb  that  lofty  gable  among  the  caryatids  and  alle- 
gorical statues,  the  volutes  and  obelisks  and  inscrip- 
tions, to  search  the  horizon  for  the  blunt  profile  of  the 
Brocken. 

These  two  structures  stand  as  monuments  of  the 
city's  wealth  in  the  flourishing  Hanseatic  days  when 
she  controlled  the  main  highway  to  the  ports  of 
Bremen-  and  Hamburg  and  Liibeck.  They  sym- 
bolize as  well  the  democratic  ideal  that  preferred 
poverty  to  oppression.     In  1293  the  people,  led  by 

152 


BRUNSWICK 

the  gilds,  began  their  fight  against  a  tyrannous  gov- 
ernment. In  consequence  they  were  declared  "auf- 
riihrerisch,"  or  riotous,  by  the  Hanseatic  League, 
and  were  repeatedly  placed  under  the  commercial 
ban,  which  almost  ruined  the  city's  prosperity.  But 
it  took  four  centuries  to  break  their  spirit,  and 
though  the  cause  was  finally  lost,  democracy  is  still 
plainly  written  upon  many  of  their  streets. 

It  is  true  that  the  name  of  Brunswick  is  in  evil 
odor  in  the  pages  of  American  history.  But  we 
should  not  harbor  resentment  against  her  because, 
in  the  darkest  period  of  her  history,  after  the  power 
of  the  people  was  finally  broken,  the  worst  of  her 
rulers  sold  a  few  thousands  of  her  sons  to  England 
to  fight  against  us  in  company  with  the  Hessians. 
The  Brunswickers  could  not  help  themselves.  They 
were  suff^ering  reaction  from  their  long  struggle 
against  the  same  evils  that  had  roused  America  to 
arms.  Who  knows  whether,  if  the  people  had  won 
their  fight,  they  might  not  have  been  our  allies  instead 
of  our  foes? 

Brunswick's  most  striking  quality  is  the  delight- 
fully homelike  atmosphere  that  seems  to  pervade  it. 
No  doubt  the  conservatism  of  a  folk  as  rich  as  they 
in  superstition  made  for  loyalty  to  the  family  and 
the  ancestral  dwelling,  and  likewise  the  democratic 
spirit  led  each  citizen  to  make  his  house  his  palace. 

153 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

These  humble  builders  stamped  their  work  with  their 
own  personality  as  completely  as  though  they  were 
sculptors  and  each  house  a  model  in  moist  clay.  And 
they  are  the  personalities  of  family  men.  Several  of 
the  streets,  like  the  Weber- Strasse,  the  Hagenbriicke, 
and  Meinhardshof  have  stood  virtually  unchanged 
since  the  sixteenth  century,  and  they  seem  fairly  to 
exude  domesticity. 

On  coming  out  suddenly  into  one  of  the  many 
squares,  if  you  have  already  caught  the  spirit  of  the 
place,  your  eyes  seek  first,  not  the  great  church  or 
public  building,  but  the  row  of  old  dwellings  oppo- 
site, glowing  with  color,  redolent  of  romance.  In 
that  nucleus  of  Brunswick,  the  Burg-Platz,  for  ex- 
ample, one  is  aware  of  something  more  significant 
than  the  castle  and  the  cathedral.  For  these  sump- 
tuous chords  are  a  little  sharp  to  the  city's  real  key- 
note, as  one  finds  on  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  dwell- 
ings opposite  and  the  crooked  street  into  which  they 
lead.  This  is  the  authentic  key-note — a  crooked 
street  filled  with  half-timbered  houses  rich  with  carv- 
ings, their  stories  pushing  out  eagerly  beyond  one 
another  as  if  anxious  to  mingle  their  gargoyles  and 
saints  above  the  happy  life  of  the  pavement;  and, 
closing  the  enchanted  vista,  some  noble  building  of 
the  people,  or  some  real  native  church,  its  traceried 
bell-house  riding  high  between  twin  towers. 

154 


BRUNSWICK 

A  deal  of  Brunswick's  charm  is  due  to  its  street 
plan.  Many  of  the  old  cities,  founded  by  pure  Teu- 
tonic stock,  in  the  south  and  west  of  Germany  devel- 
oped from  a  group  of  houses  huddled  together 
without  rhj^me  or  reason — an  arrangement  called 
"Haufendorf,"  or  "Heap  village."  On  the  other 
hand,  the  Slavic  cities  of  the  east  were  laid  out  on  a 
deadly  rectilinear  plan,  as  monotonous  as  Manhat- 
tan's sorry  scheme  of  things. 

In  Brunswick  these  two  influences  complemented 
each  other  and  produced  a  plan  both  of  irregular, 
curving  streets  and  of  far  vistas — a  plan  that  sur- 
passes the  others  as  a  design  by  Diirer  surpasses  a 
design  by  a  cliff-dweller  or  by  Euclid.  And  Bruns- 
wick has  known  better  than  most  cities  how  to  keep 
her  scheme  pure  of  modern  improvements. 

No  other  German  city  has  preserved  so  many  of  its 
Gothic  houses.  The  earlier  ones  often  bear  friezes 
in  which  a  characteristic  step-like  design  frames  low 
reliefs.  The  later  Gothic  retaliates  on  the  church 
bell-houses,  which  are,  in  a  sense,  only  transfigured 
dwellings,  by  borrowing  their  ecclesiastical  tracery. 
But  the  most  fascinating  friezes  are  the  allegorical, 
religious,  and  grotesque  reliefs  supported  by  carven 
beam-ends  and  consoles  that  seem  to  run  the  gamut 
of  piety  and  humor.  A  scene  at  Stecher-Strasse  10 
hastens  naively  from  Isaac  to  the  Resurrection  with 

157 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

a  smile  and  a  touch  of  real  religious  feeling.  But  the 
Brunswicker  seems  most  at  home  in  carvings  that  ex- 
press his  whimsical,  mischief -loving  nature,  as  in  the 
frieze  of  Neue-Strasse  9,  a  melange  of  monkeys, 
clowns,  storks,  mermen,  and  aggressive  dwarfs. 

Animal  symbolism  lies  close  to  his  heart  and  is 
often  inimitable,  as  at  Gordelinger-Strasse  38,  where 
a  fox  is  making  away  with  a  goose  and  an  ass  is  per- 
forming solemnly  on  the  bagpipes.  There  is  a  fa- 
vorite kind  of  grotesque  called  Luderzielien,  or 
"Bummers'  Tug  of  War,"  depicting  an  old  game  in 
which  two  men  wrestle  back  to  back  with  a  rope 
passed  over  their  shoulders.  As  for  the  gargoyle 
who  pulls  wide  the  corners  of  his  mouth  like  a  bad 
boy,  he  is  found  everywhere,  even  interrupting  the 
decent  progression  of  a  row  of  wooden  saints.  This 
is  the  sort  of  carven  fun  that  is  often  seen  on  old 
town  halls,  but  nowhere  else  is  it  found  in  such  pro- 
fusion on  German  homes  as  here. 

In  the  transition  style  the  old  "step"  ornament 
developed  into  the  fan-shaped  rosette,  which  often 
radiates  from  some  grotesque  head. 

"She  has  the  form  of  the  rising  sun,"  exclaims  a 
sentimental  German  writer.  "She  is  the  rising  sun 
of  the  Renaissance !" 

This  design  evolved  into  the  egg-like  ornament 
called  Ship's  Keel,  and  at  length,  reluctantly,  into 

158 


BKUNSWICK 

the  Renaissance.  But  such  is  the  conservatism  of 
private  timber  architecture  that  the  reawakening 
was  delayed  by  half  a  century,  and  even  then  the 
good  burghers  held  fast  to  many  Gothic  motifs. 

The  Hofbrauhaus  is  a  good  type  of  this  period. 
But  it  has  few  rivals,  for  Renaissance  energy  seems 
to  have  focused  here  largely  on  portals.  Those  at 
Reichen-Strasse  32  and  Siidklint  15  are  almost 
Italian  in  their  severity  and  poise.  The  most  pic- 
turesque of  all  is  opposite  the  north  transept  of  St. 
Martin's,  with  its  human  and  leonine  caryatids  and 
its  elaborately  costumed  halberdiers.  Another  fine 
portal  surprises  the  prowler  in  a  narrow  lane  back 
of  the  Briidern  Kirche,  and  another  leads  from  the 
Backerklint  to  the  place  where  they  still  make  one 
of  the  oldest  beverages  in  German  lands,  the  famous 
Mumme  beer — a  dusky  syrup  like  the  most  infamous 
cough  mixtui'p  /hat  ever  darkened  my  childish  in- 
terior. 

Brunswick  has  little  noteworthy  private  archi- 
tecture built  later  than  the  Renaissance  except  the 
amusingly  exaggerated  portal  of  Bank-Platz  1  and 
the  consummate  baroque  portal  and  oriel  at  the  head 
of  that  jewel  among  streets,  the  Reichen-Strasse. 

Many  of  the  older  dwellings  have  an  architectural 
feature  as  unique  as  are  Danzig's  Beischldge, — one 
that  adds  its  element  of  mystery  and  romance.    The 

159 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Kemnaten  are  stone  rooms  built  massively  into  the 
center  of  the  half-timbered  houses.  No  one  knows 
their  function.  Were  they  fireproof  vaults  in  the 
inflammable  times  of  thatched  roofs?  Or  were  they 
the  private  strongholds  of  the  days  when  every  man's 
hand  was  against  his  neighbor  and  his  house  was 
literally  his  castle  ? 

Among  the  chief  fascinations  of  Brunswick  are  the 
old  Hofe,  or  courts.  They  are  not  so  narrow  or  so 
teeming  with  life  as  in  Hamburg,  nor  so  opulent  in 
color  and  effects  of  vista  as  in  Liibeck ;  but  they  are 
richer  architecturally,  and  in  their  inimitable  inscrip- 
tions that  show  at  once  the  dry  wit  and  the  piety  of 
the  North  German,  as  in  the  following: 

Allen  die  mich  kennen 

den  gebe  Gott  wass  sie  mir  gonnen. 

(God  make  my  friends  all  free 
Of  what  they  wish  for  me.) 

Court-hunting  offers  all  the  excitement  of  search- 
ing for  hidden  treasure ;  for  the  most  medieval  court 
may  be  masked  by  the  most  modern  facade.  The 
only  way  is  to  enter  boldly  at  every  open  portal,  and 
presently  you  find  yourself  plunging  through  a  door 
of  the  twentieth  century  straight  into  the  fifteenth. 

There  the  low-class  artisan — the  "Little  Citizen" 
as  he  is  called — sits  before  his  house  cobbling  as  in 

160 


BRUNSWICK 

the  days  of  Hans  Sachs,  or  blows  at  a  quaint  forge 
the  flare  of  which  picks  out  Rembrandtesque  high 
hghts  amid  the  dusk  of  the  overhanging  stories — 
stories  quite  unrestored  and  full  of  dim  carvings  and 
inscriptions.  It  was  a  memorable  surprise  to  stumble 
upon  the  court  at  Schiitzen-Strasse  34  and  find  this 
motto : 

Wer  wil  haben  das  im  geling 

der  sehe  selbst  wol  zu  seinem  Ding, 

a  sentiment  that  might  be  translated : 

Who  loves  Fortune  and  would  woo  her 
Let  him  tend  in  person  to  her. 

There  was  a  long  inscription  running  along  an  entire 
side  of  this  court.  So  time-worn  and  cobwebby  was 
it  that  I  had  to  clamber  upon  a  rickety  wain  to  de- 
cipher it;  and  with  the  tail  of  my  eye  I  could  see  a 
group  of  eager  young  Brunswickers  trying  to  muster 
courage  enough  to  upset  me.     At  length  I  made  it 

out: 

Dorch  Gottes  Segen 
und  sine  Macht 
Habe  ich  das  Gebew 
Darhen  gebracht. 

(Through  God's  own  might 
And  benison 
This  building  as 
You  see  I  've  done.) 
161 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

The  most  elaborate  of  the  courts  is  entered  through 
an  interesting  portal  in  the  Jacob-Strasse.  The 
richly  carved  beam-ends  are  supported  on  columns 
with  curious  triple  capitals  and  this  "Low"  variant 
of  a  common  inscription: 

Wer  Got  vortruwet 
Der  hat  wol  gebuwet, 

which  might  be  Englished : 

The  man  whose  thoughts  in  God  repose 
Has  builded  better  than  he  knows 

There  is  no  discordant  note  in  these  Brunswick 
courts.  Everything  seems  there  by  right  divine.  At 
number  2  in  the  Wenden-Strasse  (the  ancient  Via 
Slavorum)  a  heap  of  poles  leans  by  a  fine,  late- 
Gothic,  church-like  window  as  naturally  as  though 
it  were  a  necessary  buttress.  The  court  of  Reichen- 
Strasse  32  has  even  its  dovecote  embellished  with 
Empire  medallions.  And  in  the  long  garden-court 
of  number  21,  where  numerous  "Little  Citizens"  are 
packed  in  together — not  without  friction — this 
motto  is  conspicuous : 

Wenn  Hass  und  Neid  brandte  wie  Feuer 
So  were  das  Holtz  lange  nicht  so  teuer, 

freely  rendered: 

162 


BRUNSWICK 

If  hate  and  envy  burned  like  fuel 
The  cost  of  wood  would  be  less  cruel. 

Some  of  the  squares  are  hardly  less  perfect  in  their 
way  than  the  best  of  the  courts.  The  little  Platz, 
"Am  Nickelnkulk,"  for  instance,  where  one  of 
Brunswick's  numerous  iron  serpents  pokes  his  head 
out  of  the  under-world  and  looks  about  in  surprise 
at  the  picturesque  cottages  by  the  tiny  stream.  This 
is  the  home  of  legend.  For  "Nickelnkulk"  is  cor- 
rupted from  "Nickerkulk,"  meaning  a  water-hole  in- 
habited by  a  divinity  called  "Nicker,"  a  sort  of  nix 
or  water-sprite.  This  personage  lived  for  centuries 
in  his  hole  by  the  stream,  and  fifty  years  ago  was  still 
celebrated  in  a  children's  game.  One  child  lurked 
in  a  ditch  and  tried  to  catch  the  others,  who  jumped 
over  it  singing,  in  the  lowest  of  German: 

Nickelkerl  keitschenbora, 
Ik  sitt  in  dinen  locke: 
Fange  mik  doch. 

(Nix  of  the  elder-bush, 
I  squat  in  your  den: 
Catch  me,  then.) 

It  has  the  genuine  smack  of  the  soil,  this  Low-Ger- 
man language,  so  much  older  and  so  much  more  akin 
to  the  English  than  the  High  German.     A  Platt- 
«  163 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

deutsch  poet  has  written  some  sonorous  lines  in  its 

honor : 

Uns'  Sprak  is  as  uns'  Heiden, 
urspriingelk  noch  an  free. 
Uns'  Sprak  is  deep  un  machtig 
un  prachtig  as  de  See. 

Anything  so  near  our  language  almost  translates 

itself : 

Our  speech  is  like  our  heath-land, 

Primordial  and  free. 
Our  speech  is  deep  and  mighty 

And  splendid  as  the  sea. 

In  Brunswick  the  lower  classes  speak  "Piatt"  almost 
exclusively,  and,  in  picking  it  up,  English  is  almost 
as  potent  a  help  as  German. 

There  is  the  little  Ruhfiiutchen-Platz  in  the  heart 
of  town,  dreaming  over  its  water-filled  fragment  of 
the  old  castle-moat;  the  Kohl  JVIarkt,  with  its  fine 
fountain,  its  view  of  the  Gewandhaus,  and  its  three 
Renaissance  houses.  Sun,  Moon,  and  Star.  (Al- 
though "Star"  recently  suffered  total  eclipse,  its 
memory  still  twinkles  on.) 

Then  there  is  the  Altstadt  Markt,  especially 
"when  a  great  illumination  surprises  a  festal  night," 
and  the  Gothic  fountain,  transformed  into  rainbow 
mist,  sends  a  gentle  glow  playing  over  the  old  houses 
on  the  southern  side,  and  the  band  makes  soft  music 

164 


BRUNSWICK 

behind  the  tongues  of  flame  outlining  the  arches  of 
the  Rathaus  colonnade.  Then  the  square  is  filled 
with  gaily  dressed,  fun-loving  folk  who  seem  held 
within  bounds  only  by  the  austere  spires  of  St.  Mar- 
tin's above  them. 

Because  Brunswick  has  preserved  inviolate  so 
many  of  its  intimate  old  streets  and  the  old  stock  in 
them,  and  because  the  stranger  feels  at  once  that  this 
is  a  city  of  families,  it  is  peculiarly  fitting  that  it 
should  possess  the  one  work  of  art  that  expresses 
most  completely  the  poetry  of  family  life.  In  re- 
visiting the  picture-gallery  it  is  natural  for  the  lover 
of  Brunswick  to  hasten  past  even  the  pure  spiritual- 
ity and  mysticism  of  Rembrandt's  "Noli  Me  Tan- 
gere,"  the  royal  coloring  of  his  armed  warrior,  and 
the  shimmering  Vermeer  interior,  until  he  comes 
to  the  hall  which  contains  the  goal  of  his  pilgrimage. 
If  he  is  wise,  he  will  look  first  at  the  remarkable 
Lievensz  and  at  Steen's  uproarious  wedding-scene, 
because  everything  else  pales  after  one  glance  at  the 
Rembrandt. 

To  me  it  is  one  of  the  grandest  of  all  exhibitions 
of  sheer  creative  power.  For  there  is  nothing  un- 
usual in  the  subject,  no  dramatic  or  pathetic  situa- 
tion, no  scene  of  inherent  poetic  inspiration,  no 
religious  afflatus.  It  is  a  mere  family  of  every-day 
people,  caught  amid  their  prosaic  surroundings,  and 

165 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

irradiated,  transfigured  by  the  fire  of  the  master's 
genius.  I  know  of  no  one  else  who  has  ever  made 
more  of  such  unpromising  material.  The  Germans 
call  the  picture  a  Farhen-Rausch,  and  we  can  only 
call  it  an  ecstasy  in  color.  The  figures,  in  a  delicious 
trance,  seem  in  possession  of  the  ultimate  secret,  and 
the  eldest  child  brings  toward  the  mother  a  basket 
of  flowers  as  though  moving  through  some  precious 
spiritual  rite.  One  returns  repeatedly  to  worship 
before  this  painting  as  before  a  shrine  and  to  realize 
why  its  spell  could  not  be  as  potent  elsewhere  as  in 
this  city  of  homes. 

Just  as  the  Rathaus  and  the  Gewandhaus  are 
subsidiary  to  the  dwellings  of  Brunswick,  so  are  the 
other  noteworthy  buildings :  all  but  two ;  for  the  aris- 
tocratic castle  and  cathedral  are  exceptions.  But 
it  must  be  remembered  that  these  are  both  memorials 
of  the  maker  of  Brunswick's  fortunes  and  her  great- 
est ruler,  Henry  the  Lion,  whose  death  ended  the 
days  when  the  B  runs  wickers  were  content  to  be  gov- 
erned by  any  one  man. 

In  the  ninth  century.  Burg  Dankwarderode  was 
built  by  the  brother  of  that  Bruno  who  founded 
Brunswick,  calling  it  Brunonis  Vicus.  Three  hun- 
dred years  later  it  was  sumptuously  rebuilt  by  Henry 
the  Lion;  but  during  the  centuries  of  democratic 
agitation  that  followed  it  was  ruined,  over-crusted, 

16G 


BRUNSWICK 

and  forgotten.  Finally,  in  recent  days,  some  of 
Henry's  noble  arches  and  capitals  were  discovered 
and  made  the  basis  of  the  present  restoration,  which 
is  a  masterpiece  of  its  kind,  a  worthy  mate  of 
the  Marienburg  in  East  Prussia.  Henry's  famous 
bronze  lion  in  the  little  Burg-Platz  outside,  which  has 
guarded  his  name  for  the  last  seven  hundred  years, 
snarls  ferociously  at  you  when  you  dare  to  won- 
der why  the  cathedral  exterior  is  so  unassuming. 
Indeed,  the  great  burgher  churches  were  all  built 
on  this  general  scheme,  with  a  plain,  massive  western 
front,  a  lofty  bell-house  riding  high  between  two 
towers,  and  a  long,  low  nave,  like  a  giant  dachshund 
at  the  heels  of  his  master. 

On  entering  the  cathedral  you  see  that  the  magnifi- 
cence was  all  saved  for  the  interior  as  a  setting  for 
Henry's  famous  Gothic  tomb  before  the  altar.  The 
architecture  runs  a  brilliant  scale  from  early  Roman- 
esque to  the  fantastic,  spiral-ribbed  piers  of  the  late- 
English  Gothic. 

The  place  is  filled  with  treasures.  On  the  walls 
is  a  fascinating  cycle  of  Romanesque  frescos,  the 
principal  works  of  their  kind  on  the  plain  of  North 
Germany.  There  is  a  trinity  of  sculptures,  in  the  apse, 
worthy  of  the  lion  in  the  square  outside:  a  twelfth- 
century  altar  of  bronze  and  marble,  an  old  brazen 
repHca  of  the  Seven  Golden  Candlesticks  at  Jeru- 

169 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

salem,  and,  above  all,  a  wooden  crucifix  of  the  tenth 
century,  to  which  one  returns  again  and  again  with 
ever  new  joy  and  reverence.  It  is  a  light  out  of  the 
grossly  Dark  Ages.  The  face,  hands,  and  feet  are 
long  and  slim,  the  body  is  robed,  and  the  folds  are 
channeled  as  formally  as  Assyrian  hair.  Yet  the 
figure  has  about  it  something  benignant  and  royal,  at 
once  fraternal  and  paternal.  A  German  authority 
named  Doring  has  made  the  curious  suggestion  that 
this  is  not  a  statue  of  Our  Lord,  but  of  St.  Era,  the 
patroness  of  the  crypt,  who,  as  a  foil  to  unpleasant 
attentions,  was  given  a  beard  in  answer  to  prayer. 
But  I  prefer  not  to  associate  this  Christian  Ariadne 
with  my  favorite  Brunswick  statue. 

There  is  no  such  splendor  inside  the  other  churches. 
They  breathe,  on  the  contrary,  the  spirit  of  men 
whose  tastes  were,  first  of  all,  democratic  and  domes- 
tic. They  are  eloquent  of  the  solidarity  that  should 
exist  between  the  religious  life  and  the  secular. 

In  this  town  the  street  is  no  mere  frame,  as  in  so 
many  other  picturesque  German  cities,  for  an  impor- 
tant building  at  its  end;  it  is  the  major  part  of  the 
picture,  with  the  great  tower  or  chiseled  f  a9ade  as  a 
background.  St.  Catherine's  and  St.  Andrew's  are 
splendid  foils  for  the  ways  that  surround  them.  St. 
Martin's,  indeed,  is  almost  too  subservient,  for  it  faces 
directly  down  none  of  the  fascinating  streets  of  the 

170 


CIIUKCH  Ol'"  ST.  CATHHRINIi  AND  HENRY  THIi  LION'S  1-OUNTAIN 
IN  THE  HAGEN  MARKT 


BRUNSWICK 

quarter.  The  best  it  can  do  is  to  enliven  the  Altstadt 
Markt,  with  its  chain  of  traceried  gables  and  its  rich 
choir,  where  a  statue  of  Luther  usurps  the  place  of  a 
Romish  predecessor. 

The  other  churches,  however,  atone  for  St.  Mar- 
tin's unfortunate  position.  It  is  a  joy  to  prowl 
through  the  narrow  Steelier- Strasse  and  come  out 
suddenly  on  the  broad  expanse  of  the  Hagen  INIarkt, 
where,  beyond  the  misty  waters  of  Henry  the  Lion's 
fountain,  rises  the  facade  of  St.  Catherine's,  tall  and 
slim  and  queenly,  like  some  fair  daughter  of  the  peo- 
ple. It  expresses  more  nearly  than  any  other  local 
building  the  proud  independence  of  the  Brunswick- 
ers,  their  joy  and  pride  in  the  beauty  they  were  creat- 
ing, and  their  feeling  for  the  composition  of  the  city. 

St.  Catherine's  is  a  typical  Brunswick  church. 
You  encircle  it  to  enjoy  the  gable-fields  and  to  see, 
from  many  angles,  how  gracefully  the  western  front 
detaches  itself  from  the  nave.  The  best  view  comes 
last.  Inevitably  you  retire  to  the  Hagenbriicke, 
backing  up  the  crowded  little  street.  And  the  people 
courteously  make  way  for  any  one  who  is  appreciat- 
ing how  the  high,  corbeled  stories  of  their  houses  close 
in  on  each  side  of  the  distant  fa9ade,  the  opulent  red 
of  the  gable-tiles  gradually  moving  in  to  bring  out 
the  green  patina  of  the  lesser  tower  and  the  creamy 
delicacy  of  the  window  tracery.     You  zigzag  from 

173 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

curb  to  curb,  comparing  the  scores  of  rival  effects, 
and  the  cHmax  comes  on  the  corner  of  the  Reichen- 
Strasse.  These  Gothic  houses,  teeming  with  twenti- 
eth-century humanity,  are  brought  out  by  that 
Gothic  house  of  the  God  of  all  centuries,  beyond. 
They  seem  enriched  and  spiritualized  by  its  very 
presence,  much  as  the  ideal  church  enriches  and 
spiritualizes  the  lives  of  its  children.  That  the  rela- 
tion of  the  infinite  to  the  finite  could  be  so  embodied 
in  a  double  row  of  worm-eaten  houses  leading  crook- 
edly from  a  church,  I  had  never  realized  until  the 
hour  when  I  first  stood  in  the  Hagenbriicke. 

St.  Andrew's  has  less  of  the  gracious  sweetness  of 
St.  Catherine's  and  more  of  the  monumentality  of 
the  cathedral.  But  it  heightens  the  beauty  and  no- 
bility of  the  surrounding  streets  as  potently  as  its 
sister  church,  if  in  a  more  virile  way.  And  it  has  a 
wider  range  of  effects. 

The  view  down  the  Weber- Strasse  is  a  worthy 
companion  to  that  down  the  Hagenbriicke,  only  the 
houses  are  plainer,  and  the  church  more  obscured  by 
them.  But  St.  Andrew's  has  in  its  repertory  other 
pieces  almost  as  inspired  as  this. 

You  give  yourself  up  to  the  curvetings  of  the  ca- 
pricious little  Meinliardshof,  where  the  overhanging 
f  a9ades,  leaning  on  their  saint  and  sinner  corbels,  let 
only  a  narrow  ribbon  of  sunshine  slip  between  them; 

174 


BRUNSWICK 

where  the  tiles  run  up  suddenly  into  incorrectly  made 
dunce-caps  or  break  out  into  dormers  or  little  eye- 
like windows  bulging  with  surprise — tiles  that  cast  a 
ruddy  reflection  upon  tlie  grotesque  carvings  of  the 
opposite  house-front,  from  which  the  glow  rebounds 
across  the  cobbles  and  plays  about  a  portal  of  black- 
ness leading  into  some,  indescribable  court  full  of  the 
mysterious  and  the  medieval. 

At  length,  if  you  can  tear  yourself  away  at  all, 
you  round  another  bend  and  see,  beyond  a  Gothic 
house  more  crooked,  if  possible  than  the  street  itself, 
the  southern  tower  of  St.  Andrew's,  the  tallest  and 
most  impressive  of  Brunswick's  many,  shooting  up 
from  the  picturesque  Alte  Waage  that  nestles  at  its 
base,  looking  more  like*a  home  than  a  public  building. 

Amid  such  intimate  enjoyment  of  the  humbler 
houses  of  the  people,  to  come  suddenly  upon  this 
stately  tower  harjnonizing  so  completely  with  them 
was  to  find  a  new  point  of  view.  Brunswick  came  to 
mean  the  city  of  homes  above  all,  and  this  tower,  seen 
from  here  or  down  the  steps  from  the  Promenade  to 
the  Woll-Markt,  never  failed  to  sound  this  charming 
note  of  domesticity. 

The  gables  of  St.  Andrew's  are  the  most  interest- 
ing in  Brunswick,  and  its  water-spouting  gargoyles 
the  most  enthusiastic.  Only  too  often  I  have  seen 
them  discharging  their  liquid  task  with  the  most 

175 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

fluent  joy,  a  condition  alone  attainable  by  complete 
fitness  for  one's  vocation.  And  there  is  one,  a  lovable 
fellow,  a  cousin  of  those  on  the  houses,  pulling  wide 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  as  though  performing  a 
duty.  The  huge  Gothic  groups  on  the  southern 
gable-fields  representing  the  "Flight  into  Egypt" 
and  the  "Slaughter  of  the  Innocents"  are  so  delicious 
in  their  naivete  and  yet  so  touching  that  one  chuckles 
as  one  looks  at  them  through  moist  eyes.  One  of  the 
most  affecting  and  amusing  of  the  reliefs  shows 
Christ  sitting  with  a  group  of  cripples;  for  the 
church  is  supposed  to  have  been  founded  by  a  group 
of  wealthy  cripples  who  lived  in  the  Kroppel-Strasse 
adjoining.  The  learned  Doring,  however,  contends 
that  this  is  Christ  in  the  Temple  disputing  with  the 
doctors,  whose  spiritual  infirmities  are  physically 
portrayed.. 

The  bell-house  of  St.  Andrew's,  though  simpler 
than  that  of  St.  Catherine's  or  that  of  the  cathedral, 
is  almost  as  effective.  There  is  a  threefold  beauty  in 
the  conception  of  these  lofty  gables  of  stone  lace- 
work.  Tenderly  they  sound  the  city's  dominant  do- 
mestic theme,  and  embody  the  thought  that  the  Ger- 
man art  of  music  should  have  a  separate  architectonic 
expression.  For  the  burghers  conceived  that  the 
music  of  their  chimes  should  be  no  mere  adjunct  to 
the  steeple,  the  function  of  which  is  not  to  contain 

176 


THE  ALTL   \.  .lA     1         (JOKING  TOWARD  ST.  ANDREWS 


BRUNSWICK 

bells,  but  to  direct  the  eye  of  the  soul  toward  heaven. 
They  also  sound  a  note  distinctly  human,  for  they 
break  the  too  abrupt  idealism  of  the  tower's  leap 
from  cobbles  to  sky  by  interjecting,  half-way  up, 
something  that  means  to  the  Teuton  the  most  spirit- 
ual joy  short  of  religious  ecstasy,  and  yet  a  joy  that 
he  may  feel  as  keenly  in  a  seance  with  his  violin,  be- 
neath the  homely  red  tiles  yonder,  as  when  the  organ 
reverberates  through  the  nave  on  Sunday  morning. 

These  medieval  bell-houses  were  prophetic  as  well ; 
for  Brunswick  was  to  have  a  musical  history  pecu- 
liarly honorable,  as  is  shown  to-day  by  the  monu- 
ments to  its  two  citizens,  Abt  and  Spohr. 

Sometimes  it  is  pleasant  to  punctuate  this  Old- 
World  romance  with  a  walk  around  the  charming 
promenades  or  among  the  new  villas  beyond,  or  to 
go  farther,  to  the  Park  of  Richmond,  the  estate  of 
the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  rightful  heir  to  the  prov- 
ince. But  one  always  returns  with  new  zest  to  the 
narrow,  winding  streets,  full  of  the  color  and  spirit 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  where  the  houses  lean  together 
across  the  ways  as  if  to  embrace  one  another. 

Not  long  ago  an  enthusiast  was  asked  which  Ger- 
man city  he  loved  best.  It  proved  a  difficult  problem. 
None  of  the  large  ones,  certainly.  They  were  too 
huge  and  many-sided.  It  would  be  like  adoring  a 
score  of  wives  at  the  same  time.     Besides,  unlike 

179 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

wives,  great  cities  are  too  impersonal.  On  the  other 
hand,  little  Rothenburg  was  for  him  almost  too  full 
of  the  romantic  elements  to  be  real.  The  people 
seemed  like  actors  on  a  stage.  He  found  himself 
constantly  watching  for  the  spot-light,  straining  his 
ears  for  the  prompter,  and  fearing  lest  the  curtain  be 
abruptly  rung  down.  Nuremberg's  alloy  of  modern 
buildings  and  the  modern  spirit  put  it  out  of  the 
question.  Neither  were  the  dwellings  of  Danzig 
friendly  enough,  nor  its  half-Slavic  atmosphere. 
Strassburg  he  cherished  for  its  cathedral,  but  disliked 
for  its  people.  In  spite  of  all  their  romance  and  beauty, 
Regensburg  and  Bautzen  were  too  somber,  Augs- 
burg too  formal.  Cologne  he  would  almost  have 
chosen  but  for  its  discordant  foreign  note,  its  dirt, 
and  its  beggars.  The  houses  of  Liibeck  were  hardly 
beautiful  enough;  those  of  Hildesheim,  on  the  other 
hand,  were  almost  too  self-conscious  and  brilliant  and 
precious.  One  cannot  hold  a  treasure-casket  in 
warm,  human  affection. 

And  so,  although  he  prefers  the  gemutlicli  southern 
temperament  to  the  northern,  yet,  all  in  all,  he  felt 
he  must  choose  Brunswick.  For  the  town  of  Tyll 
Eulenspiegel  is  almost  unspoiled  by  the  modern 
note;  its  architecture  is  the  spontaneous  expression 
of  natures  uniting  Thuringian  gaiety,  sweetness,  and 
taste  with  Northern  depth  and  sincerity.     It  is  a 

180 


THE  FRONT  OF  ST.  ANDREWS,  AS  SEEN  FROM  THE  WEBER-STRASSE 


BRUNSWICK 

hearty,  wholesome,  true  kind  of  romance  that 
Brunswick  exhales.  And  perhaps  the  democracy  of 
the  people,  perhaps  their  humor,  is  what  tipped  the 
beam,  and  made  him  love  more  than  any  other  in 
Germany  the  town  that  is  summed  up  by  the  view 
of  St.  Catherine's  down  the  Hagenbriicke  and  by 
the  little  old  Backerklint  where  sits  Tyll  Eulen- 
spiegel,  his  monkeys'  heads  rubbed  bright  by  the 
loving  hands  of  children. 


183 


GOSLAR  IN  THE  HARZ 

^ODULATION  is  as  important  an  ele- 
ment of  the  art  of  traveling  as  it  is  of 
I  those  cousin  arts,  painting  and  music. 
I  have  had  occasion  to  speak  of  get- 
ting the  soul  down  from  the  shrill  modern 
key  of  Berlin  to  the  deep,  mellow  tonality  of  old  Dan- 
zig. But  there  is  another  sort  of  modulation,  quite  as 
important  to  the  traveler  and  more  difficult.  It  is  a 
smooth  transition  from  the  simple,  deliberate,  care- 
less romanza  of  outdoor  life  to  the  exciting,  exacting, 
exhausting  scherzo  movement  of  some  rich  historic 
city  where  attention,  memory,  and  sympathy  are 
every  moment  astrain. 

In  recuperating  from  the  exhausting  demands  of 
a  tour  among  the  Northern  cities  the  lover  of  beauty 
is  often  tempted  to  lose  all  sense  of  the  flow  of  time 
in  wandering  with  Rucksack  and  staff  among  the 
evergreen  forests  of  the  Harz  Mountains,  following 
where  the  charming  Oker's  music  leads;  idling  in 
the  fabled  region  where  sleeps  Barbarossa,  his  red 

184 


GOSLAR  IX  THE  HARZ 

beard  grown  clean  through  the  table ;  or  held  fast  in 
the  "wild  romantisch"  gorge  of  the  Bode  Thai,  where, 
from  each  wall  of  cliff,  the  Hexentanzplatz  and  the 
Rosstrappe  look  down  on  the  river  boiling  far  be- 
neath. 

Standing  on  that  lofty  crag  whence  the  princess, 
pursued  by  the  giant,  made  her  mythical  leap  across 
the  valley  and  left  her  horse's  hoof-print  in  the  vock, 
the  traveler  gazes  over  the  sandy  level  that  is  North 
Germany  and  makes  out  on  the  horizon,  far  beyond 
the  spires  of  Quedlinburg  and  of  Halberstadt,  the 
massive  towers  of  Magdeburg  cathedral. 

With  a  start  he  realizes  that  there  are  other  won- 
ders in  this  region  than  mountains  and  rivers  and 
their  genii.  The  fever  of  civilization  seizes  him. 
Rashly  importunate,  he  crashes  down  on  the  itiner- 
ant keyboard  with  both  elbows  and  rushes  headlong 
into  such  a  bewildering  treasure-house  of  the  ages  as 
Halberstadt  or  Hildesheim. 

The  transition  is  too  abrupt.  He  is  no  longer 
used  to  cathedrals  and  Rembrandts  and  streets  of 
Gothic  houses  with  overlapping  stories.  If  his  time 
in  Germany  is  really  inelastic  it  would  be  far  wiser 
to  lop  a  day  or  two  from  Berlin  or  Leipsic  or  Frank- 
fort, from  Dresden  or  even  from  JVIunich,  and  so 
make  his  journey  conform  to  the  canons  of  the  art 
of  traveling. 

185 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Suppose  that  our  tourist  should,  for  example, 
actually  come  to  his  senses  at  Thale.  Let  him  not 
make  a  hysterical  dash  at  Hildesheim,  but  rather 
stop  over  a  train  at  little  Wernigerode  to  marvel  at 
the  ancient  Rathaus  and  empty  a  glass  in  its  vaulted 
cellar;  to  enjoy  a  slight  foretaste  of  what  the  half- 
timbered  houses  of  the  Harz  country  are  like;  and 
then  move  on  for  a  day  in  the  more  impressive  and 
interesting  town  of  Goslar,  with  its  august  history 
and  its  curious  legends. 

Your  entry  into  town  is  reminiscent  of  Nurem- 
berg ;  for  you  come  at  once  upon  a  huge,  round  fort- 
ress tower  guarding  the  approach.  But  instead  of 
lingering  here  you  hasten  to  the  farther  end  of  town 
to  see  the  building  that  made  Goslar  famous— its 
very  raison  d'etre. 

Goslar  came  into  the  world  because  it  lay  on  the 
fringe  of  the  Harz  forests  and  at  the  foot  of  the 
silver-yielding  Rammelsberg,  both  of  which  were 
owned  by  the  ninth-century  emperors  of  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire.  They  put  up  there  a  succession  of 
hunting-lodges  and  small  palaces  until  Emperor 
Henry  III  built  the  Kaiserhaus,  which  is  to-day  the 
oldest  secular  building  in  Germany.  Here  Henry 
IV  began  his  ill-starred  life.  His  preference  for  liv- 
ing at  Goslar  and  the  number  of  castles  he  built  in 
the   neighborhood  roused  the  fears  of  the   Saxon 

186 


GOSLAR  IN  THE  HARZ 

nobles,  who  tried  to  assassinate  him  one  evening  at 
the  Kaiserhaus.  And  this  was  the  opening  scene  of 
the  drama  that  culminated  at  Canossa,  when,  bare- 
footed, the  Emperor  waited  three  days  in  the  snow 
before  Pope  Gregory's  portal. 

The  last  Holy  Roman  emperor  in  these  spacious 
halls  was  Barbarossa.  After  him  the  noble  building 
gradually  fell  into  ruin  until  the  coming  of  the  new 
empire,  when  it  was  restored  in  a  rather  hard  Prus- 
sian style,  and  received  into  its  halls  the  second  great 
German  leader,  William  I.  Now,  in  bronze,  the 
pair  sit  their  war-horses  on  either  side  of  the  main 
flight  of  steps — Barbarossa  and  Barbablanca,  as  the 
people  call  them. 

The  main  hall  is  decorated  with  frescos  of  the 
Sleeping  Beauty  and  the  Barbarossa  legends,  and 
scenes  from  local  and  imperial  history.  Its  principal 
attraction  is  the  old  Kaiserstuhl,  seat  of  a  long  line  of 
emperors. 

In  the  chapel  of  St.  Ulrich  the  heart  of  Henry  III 
lies  buried.  It  lay  formerly  in  the  famous  cathedral 
which  Henry  built  near  his  palace  and  which  was 
torn  down  in  1819.  This  piece  of  vanished  glory 
possessed  an  extraordinary  collection  of  treasures 
and  relics.  It  made  nothing  of  the  bones  of  such 
saints  as  Nicholas,  Laurence,  Cyril,  and  Dionysius; 
for  it  boasted  important  remains  of  the  Apostles 

^  189 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

themselves.  There  was  half  of  the  Apostle  Philip, 
an  arm  of  Bartholomew  and  one  of  James,  a  hand, 
arm,  and  the  head  of  Matthew,  and  a  large  part  of 
the  bodies  of  Peter  and  Paul.  There  were  also, 
among  other  wonders,  an  original  portrait  of  St. 
Matthew  and  part  of  a  nail  from  the  true  cross. 

Many  of  these  valuables  were  stolen  in  Goslar's 
sack  by  Gunzelin  in  1206,  and  when  the  Swedes 
occupied  the  town  four  years  during  the  Thirty 
Years'  War.  Others  were  sold  to  keep  up  the  cathe- 
dral during  the  hard  times  brought  on  by  the  Ref- 
ormation. So  that  the  only  remnant  of  the  build- 
ing and  its  treasures  to-day  is  a  part  of  one  transept 
near  the  Kaiserhaus,  with  some  interesting  statues, 
some  of  the  oldest  stained  glass  in  existence,  and  an 
early  Romanesque  reliquarium  borne  by  still  earlier 
brazen  figures  of  the  Four  Rivers  of  Paradise,  old 
as  the  city  itself.  From  this  one  piteous  fragment 
with  its  sculptured  portal  one  can  reconstruct  the 
whole— e<r  pede  Herculem — and  realize  the  effect  of 
a  religious  pageant  on  one  of  Goslar's  chief  holy 
days,  such  as  the  feast  of  St.  Matthew,  when  the 
bells  in  the  twin  towers  went  mad,  when  Henry  III 
in  his  imperial  robes  swept  down  the  broad  steps  of 
the  Kaiserhaus,  heading  a  brilliant  train  of  prelates, 
princes,  knights,  and  many  a  band  of  pilgrims  who 
had  come  from  every  part  of  the  empire  to  bow  at 

190 


GOSLAR  IN  THE  HARZ 

this  famous  shrine.  And  after  the  last  Amen  had 
died  away  among  the  lofty  vaulting  of  the  cathedral, 
St.  Matthew  in  his  silver  sarcophagus  was  carried 
with  due  rites  about  the  city  walls. 

These  occasions,  however,  were  not  always  peace- 
ful. For  Widerad,  Abbot  of  Fulda,  once  quarreled 
with  Hezilo,  Bishop  of  Hildesheim,  over  a  matter  of 
precedence.  Both  brought  armed  followers  to  the 
cathedral,  and  a  bloody  fight  broke  out  in  the  choir, 
the  bishop  standing  on  the  steps  of  the  high  altar 
and  urging  on  his  men  with  all  his  resources  of  dis- 
pensation and  absolution.  Legend  has  mingled  with 
this  story  of  the  "Blood-bath"  and  relates  that  the 
encounter  had  been  arranged  by  the  Evil  One  him- 
self, who  now  rolled  about  behind  the  bishop  and 
held  his  belly  in  convulsions  of  laughter  (lialte  sich 
den  Bauch  vor  Lachen).  Finally  he  flew  away 
through  the  roof,  calling  out,  "I  've  made  this  day  a 
bloody  one!"  and  left  a  broad  crack  which  could  not 
be  walled  up  until  some  one  hit  on  the  expedient  of 
stuffing  a  Bible  into  the  breach. 

These  buildings,  then,  the  Kaiserhaus  and  the 
Domkapelle,  are  the  only  local  Selienswiirdigheiten 
ersten  Ranges — the  only  "see-worthinesses  of  the 
first  class."  That  is  why  Goslar  makes  such  a  smooth 
modulation  to  Hildesheim.  Here  you  have  a  mere 
taste  of  the  labor  of  conscientious  sight-seeing;  then 

191 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

for  the  balance  of  your  stay  you  feel  at  liberty  to 
send  your  conscience  to  the  hotel,  while  you  yourself 
drift  about  happy,  careless,  and  Baedekerless,  seek- 
ing what  your  eyes  may  devour.  In  other  words, 
you  put  down  the  big  history  book  for  an  hour's 
ramble  through  the  illustrated  magazine. 

Perhaps  you  come  upon  a  mighty  round  tower 
embowered  in  trees  beyond  the  waters  of  the  Kahn- 
teich.  It  is  the  old  Zwinger,  largest  of  Goslar's 
original  one  hundred  and  eighty-two  towers  of  de- 
fense, and  .capable  of  holding  a  thousand  armored 
warriors.  Or  you  happen  upon  an  anomalous  build- 
ing, a  cross  between  church  and  dwelling,  with 
columned  windows,  a  generous  spread  of  roof  filled 
with  little  dormers,  and,  above,  a  projection  unde- 
cided whether  to  be  a  steeple  or  a  chimney.  You 
venture  through  the  Gothic  portal  and  see  long 
sweeps  of  raftered  ceiling,  and  gloomy  wooden  bal- 
conies, and  no  end  of  tiny  rooms  where  old  women 
sit  about  knitting  humbly  and  making,  with  their 
surroundings,  the  most  delightful  Dutch  genre  pic- 
tures of  the  sixteeenth  century.  Then  one  of  the  old 
ladies  comes  out',  accepts  a  copper  with  deprecation, 
and  quavers  out  that  this  is,  please,  the  almshouse  of 
the  Great  Holy  Cross. 

Or  you  meander  along  the  diminutive  Gose  River, 
that  gave  the  city  its  name  {lar  is  old  Franconian  for 

192 


Tllli  liRlSTTliCH 


GOSLAR  IN  THE  HARZ 

"home").  You  find  a  delightful  mill,  and  fall  to 
sketching — or  wish  that  you  could  fall.  And  you 
break  into  the  adjoining  Glockengiesser-Strasse  and 
think  of  the  bell-caster  of  Goslar  who  cast  the  fa- 
mous cathedral  bells  there  and  the  spooky  fountain 
in  the  INIarkt,  and  whose  ancestor  perhaps  did  the 
Four  Rivers  of  Paradise  in  the  Domkapelle. 

You  appreciate  the  half-timbered  dwellings  so 
much  that  your  appetite  is  whetted  for  better  ones. 
If  you  are  persistent  you  find  them  at  the  head  of 
the  JNIarkt-Strasse.  Crescit  indulgens!  The  taste 
grows  upon  you.  Presently,  unless  you  are  very  re- 
served or  blase,  you  give  a  cry  of  pleasure.  You 
have  discovered  the  Brusttuch,  a  crooked  late-Gothic 
gildliouse  named  after  an  indispensable  part  of  the 
local  peasant's  costume.  It  has  an  amazingly  sharp, 
high  ridge.  Its  lowest  story  is  of  picturesque  rough 
stone ;  its  second  is  half-timbered  and  filled  with  such 
homely,  humorous  carvings  as  riot  along  the  streets 
of  Brunswick.  Among  them  are  reliefs  of  couA^vial 
monkeys  and  of  witches  riding  their  broomsticks  to 
the  Brocken.  With  its  wide  oriel  and  flowing  lines 
it  is  a  charming  examj^le  of  the  old-German  patri- 
cian house,  and,  with  its  two  distinguished  neighbors, 
the  Bakers'  gildliouse  and  the  Kaiserworth,  forms 
a  group  more  reminiscent  of  the  houses  of  Nurem- 
berg than  of  more  northern  architecture. 

195 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

The  simple  Rathaus  harmonizes  well  with  this 
trio.  It  is  especially  interesting  for  its  series  of  fres- 
cos, thought  to  be  from  the  hand  of  the  Nuremberg 
painter  Wohlgemuth  (although  a  few  learned  Ger- 
mans deny  this  with  frenzied  gesticulations.)  An- 
other notable  possession  of  the  Rathaus  is  an  old  iron 
cage  called  "The  Biting  Cat,"  now  unhappily  fallen 
into  innocuous  desuetude.  It  was  made  to  accom- 
modate a  pair  of  shrews. 

It  is  well  known  of  the  fountain  outside  that  if, 
at  midnight,  you  knock  three  times  on  its  lowest 
basin  the  devil  will  appear  at  once  and  fly  away  with 
you  to  his  home  in  the  neighboring  Rammelsberg. 

Small  wonder  that  he  is  such  a  powerful  person- 
age here,  for  Goslar's  churches  are  singularly  unat- 
tractive. Perhaps  they  were  too  much  overshadowed 
by  the  vanished  cathedral.  But  the  Church  of  the 
New  Work  contains  an  interesting  old  fresco,  and 
its  eastern  apse  boasts  a  gem  of  a  colonnade. 

Beyond  the  walls  is  a  remarkable  grotto  chapel 
called  Clus,  hewn  by  hand  in  a  mighty  boulder. 
Legend  says  that  the  gigantic  St.  Christopher  used 
to  haunt  the  region  between  Goslar  and  Harzburg. 
One  day  he  felt  a  pebble  in  his  shoe — and  emptied 
out  this  very  boulder.  Many  years  afterward  it  was 
made  into  a  chapel  by  Agnes,  the  wife  of  Henry  III, 
as  penance  for  a  sad  mistake.    For  she  once  had  her 

196 


GOSLAR  IN  THE  HARZ 

oldest  servant  executed  for  the  theft  of  some  jew- 
elry; and  when  this  was  found  years  afterward  in  a 
raven's  nest,  she  thought  to  save  her  soul  by  found- 
ing the  Clus  Chapel  and  the  Abbey  of  St.  Peter, 
whose  ruins  may  still  be  seen  hard  by. 

From  here  one  reenters  the  city  by  the  Broad 
Gate,  the  most  elaborate  fragment  of  the  original 
fortifications.  Its  four  massive  towers  made  an  en- 
trance worthy  to  welcome  any  emperor;  and  one 
imagines  the  splendor  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire 
pouring  in  in  brilliant  cavalcade  between  those  huge 
bastions  and  defying  all  the  world  to  follow. 


197 


VI 
HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

,EW  of  the  older  'German  cities,  like  Gos- 
lar  and  Liibeck,  show  themselves  at  once 
to  the  traveler  for  what  they  are.  As  a 
rule,  like  Danzig,  Bautzen,  and  Augs- 
burg, they  are  coy  and  cover  their  charms 
with  a  cheap  new  veil.  But  of  these,  none  is  coyer 
than  Hildesheim.  Of  course  I  did  not  expect  the 
railway  station  to  be  romantic.  But  my  hotel  win- 
dow, near  by,  gave  on  the  town,  and  one  glance 
brought  a  pang  of  disappointment.  Almost  the 
first  sound  I  had  heard  on  arrival  was  the  clatter  of  a 
pianola  brutally  enlivening  a  cinematograph  show; 
and  now  the  first  glimpse  of  the  home  of  the  Thou- 
sand-year Rose-bush  was  of  an  ordinary  New  Eng- 
land village  with  its  deadly  commonplace  houses  and 
its  homely  steeples. 

A  few  steps  tbward  the  center  of  things  destroyed 

198 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

this  disillusion,  only  to  bring  another.  I  had  ex- 
pected to  find  Hildesheim  a  smaller,  mOre  exquisite 
edition  of  my  favorite  German  city — a  little  Bruns- 
wick de  luxe  with  a  jeweled  clasp.  Instead  I  found 
its  counterpart,  and  within  the  next  few  hours  was 
forced  to  reconstruct  all  my  ideas  of  the  place. 

Brunswick  is  democratic,  a  city  of  plain  people. 
Hildesheim  is  aristocratic,  as  befits  the  ancient  see  of 
a  line  of  great  prelate  princes.  Brunswick's  charm 
is  mainly  Gothic;  Hildesheim's,  mainly  Roman- 
esque and  Renaissance.  There  the  churches  are  sub- 
servient to  the  wonderful,  homogeneous  old  streets 
about  them;  the  houses  are  sincere  expressions  of 
strong  individuality.  Here  the  real  key-note  of  the 
place  is  struck  by  such  magnificent  church  interiors 
as  St.  Michael's  and  St.  Godehard's.  JMany  of  these 
houses  are  richer,  more  picturesque  than  those  of 
Brunswick,  but  the  rich  facades  are  in  glaring  con- 
trast to  the  poorer  ones,  and  often  show,  instead  of 
personal  initiative,  a  desire  to  emulate  the  pomp,  the 
learning,  the  solemn  circumstance  of  the  bishops. 
In  Hildesheim  there  is  a  marked  absence  of  the  fa- 
miliar, informal  little  courts,  the  grotesque  friezes, 
the  homely,  humorous  carvings  and  niottos  that 
make  Brunswick  such  an  intimate  place.  Inscrip- 
tions are  there  a-plenty,  but  most  of  them  are  pomp- 
ous or  stilted,  ill-natured,  didactic,  or  melancholy, 

199 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

and  a  great  many  are  in  ostentatious  Latin.  It  is 
clear  that  the  old  Hildesheimers  were  not  so  happy 
in  their  exclusiveness  as  were  the  B  runs  wickers  in 
their  democracy.  Instead  of  the  genial  clowns  and 
mermen,  the  tugs  of  war,  the  musical  asses  and  apes, 
the  domesticated  gargoyles,  behold  reliefs  of  the 
Virtues  and  the  Vices,  of  the  Arts,  Sciences,  Ele- 
ments, Seasons, — all  with  neat  Latin  labels  that  re- 
mind one  of  the  scrolls  issuing  from  the  mouths  of 
figures  in  old-fashioned  woodcuts.  And  the  few 
saints  left  over  from  Gothic  times  keep  shockingly 
indiscriminate  company,  not  with  Low-German  sin- 
ners, but  with  the  gods  of  Greece  and  Rome.  I  have 
known  no  other  private  architecture  with  so  strong  a 
didactic  and  homiletic  flavor  as  that  which  these  Hil- 
desheimers assimilated  from  their  pious  overlords. 

But  if  the  place  gives  one  the  impression  of  being 
always  on  her  good  behavior  and  a  trifle  self-con- 
scious, she  more  than  makes  up  for  it  by  her  wealth 
of  legend.  Fairy  fingers  have  woven  gleaming 
strands  about  many  of  her  choicest  treasures,  and  in 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  German  land  there  are 
few  legends  more  lovely  than  that  of  the  origin  of 
Hildesheim.    This  is  one  of  the  many  variants : 

In  the  year  815,  Emperor  Louis  the  Pious,  son  of 
Charlemagne,  was  hunting  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
Hercynian  forest,  and,  in  following  a  white  buck, 

200 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

he  outdistanced  his  followers  and  lost  both  his 
quarry,  his  horse,  and  his  way  in  the  Innerste  River. 
The  Emperor  swam  to  shore  and  wandered  alone  un- 
til he  came  to  a  mound  sacred  to  the  ancient  Saxon 
goddess  Hulda — a  beautiful  mound  covered  with 
her  own  flower,  the  wild  rose.  Again  and  again  he 
sounded  his  hunting-horn,  but  there  was  no  answer. 
Then  he  drew  from  his  bosom  a  casket  containing 
relics  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  and,  while  praying  before 
it  for  .rescue,  fell  into  a  deep  sleep.  When  he  awoke 
the  mound  where  he  lay  was  covered  with  snow, 
although  it  was  high  summer  and  everything  about 
was  green.  The  roses  on  the  sacred  mound  were 
blooming  more  brilliantly  than  ever.  He  looked  for 
the  reliquary  and  found  it  frozen  fast  amid  the 
thorns  of  a  great  rose-bush.  Then  the  Emperor  knew 
that  the  heathen  goddess  had,  "by  shaking  her  bed," 
sent  the  holy  snow  in  token  that  the  Christian  god- 
dess should  now  be  worshiped  in  her  stead.  "W^ien 
his  followers  finally  discovered  him  he  had  resolved 
to  build  on  that  mound  a  cathedral  to  the  Virgin 
Mary.  And  to-day  on  the  choir  of  this  cathedral 
that  very  rose-bush  is  still  in  bloom. 

All  this  is  by  no  means  a  pure  fiction.  For  it  is 
certain  that  the  spot  was  a  headquarters  of  the  old 
Saxon  religion;  that  Louis  transferred  the  Eastpha- 
lian  see  here  from  Elze  in  815;  and  that  nobody 

201 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

knows  how  many  centuries  old  the  roots  of  the  fa- 
mous rose-bush  really  are.  Where  it  grows  is  the 
birthplace  of  Hildesheim,  a  name  thought  to  mean 
"Hulda's  Home,"  and  the  old  cloisters  that  inclose  it 
are  worthy  of  their  situation.  In  the  autumn,  when 
their  smothering  of  woodbine  breaks  forth  into  scar- 
let  and  old  rose  and  carnelian,  into  all  pinks  and 
oranges  and  purples— brought  out  the  more  by  the 
deep  browns  and  grays  and  yellows  of  the  double 
arcade — it  needs  neither  the  Thousand-year  Rose- 
bush, nor  the  crumbling  tombs,  nor  the  charming 
Gothic  chapel,  with  its  devout  gargoyles,  that  is  set 
in  the  midst,  to  make  this  cloister  garden  one  of  the 
sweetest  shrines  ever  dedicated  to  the  contemplative 
life. 

Out  of  this  beautiful  beginning  grew  a  city  that 
has,  ever  after,  seemed  suffused  with  the  romaunt  of 
the  rose.  The  first  small,  fortified  settlement  about 
the  cathedral,  called  the  Domburg,  was  surrounded 
with  rose-hedges  which  became  the  godmothers  of 
such  streets  as  Long-hedge,  Short-hedge,  Flood- 
hedge,  and  the  trio  of  Rose-hedges  (Rosenhagen  I, 
II,  and  III).  And  there  is  a  tradition  that  each  of 
the  cathedral  clergy  is  warned  of  his  own  death  three 
days  beforehand  by  a  white  rose  which  he  finds  in  his 
choir-stall. 

In  the  eighteenth  century,  sad  to  relate,  the  an- 

202 


CATHEDRAL  CLOISTERS.     THE  THOUSAND-YEAR  ROSEBUSH 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

cient,  austere  splendor  of  the  cathedral  interior  was 
transformed  into  a  baroque  splendor  that  shows  par- 
ticularly tawdry  and  frivolous  against  the  few 
remains  of  Romanesque  construction  and  the  no- 
table treasures  of  early  art  that  fill  the  building. 
Though  the  architecture  of  this  cathedral  is  not  to 
be  compared  with  Brunswick's,  yet  the  place  is  fully 
as  interesting.  For  here  the  famous  bronze  doors, 
the  Christ  Pillar,  and  the  font  far  outshine  the  trin- 
ity of  Romanesque  sculptures  there. 

The  bronze  doors  were  finished  in  1015  by  St. 
Bernward  of  Hildesheim,  one  of  the  most  illustrious 
of  German  bishops,  celebrated  as  teacher,  architect, 
sculptor,  and  friend  of  three  emperors.  Standing 
before  them,  one  is  filled  with  astonishment  on  re- 
membering that  this  was  the  virgin  appearance  of 
art  in  a  region  hitherto  artless.  It  is  a  miracle  of 
precocity.  For  these  reliefs,  though  crude,  are  far 
more  direct  and  elemental,  and  touch  the  heart  more 
deeply,  in  their  naive  blend  of  humor  and  pathos  and 
religious  fervor,  than  Ghiberti's  doors  on  the  Flor- 
entine baptistery. 

During  his  visit  to  Rome  in  the  year  1001,  St. 
Bernward  borrowed  his  main  idea  from  the  doors  of 
St.  Sabina ;  and  his  Christ  Pillar  was  executed  in  the 
spirit  of  the  Column  of  Trajan. 

It  is  peculiarly  fitting  that  these  works,  represent- 

205 


ROIMANTIC  GERMANY 

ing  the  miraculous  birth  of  German  art,  should  be 
accompanied  by  the  thirteenth-century  font  that 
stands  for  the  culmination  of  Romanesque  brazen 
sculpture  in  the  North. 

In  the  nave  hangs  a  reminder  of  that  Bishop 
Hezilo  who  urged  on  his  bloody  band  from  the  high 
altar  of  Goslar.  It  is  an  immense  chandelier  in  the 
form  of  the  heavenly  Jerusalem,  a  battlemented 
ring-wall  of  exquisite  filigree  broken  by  twelve 
towers  and  twelve  portals. 

Before  the  elaborate  Renaissance  reredos  stands 
a  column  of  polished  stone  bearing  a  Madonna.  The 
people  of  Hildesheim  firmly  believe  it  to  be  a  part  of 
the  original  Irmensaule  that  stood  near  the  city  in 
the  Dark  Ages  and  marked  the  principal  shrine  of 
the  Old  Saxon  god  Irmin.  They  say  that  Charle- 
magne cast  it  down  and  broke  it  with  his  own  hand 
in  his  vigorous  attempt  to  Christianize  the  heathen 
— a  conception  inhumanly  abused  by  certain  Ger- 
man professors  who  have  an  almost  puritanical  ha- 
tred of  the  glamourous  and  force  every  attractive 
idea  to  stand  trial  for  its  life.  In  their  despite  I 
prefer  to  believe  that  this  is  the  authentic  heathen 
pillar,  and  that  the  relics  of  the  Virgin  were  really 
frozen  by  the  sacred  snow  in  the  rose-bush  outside, 
more  than  a  millennium  ago. 

At  any  rate,  one  may  see  in  the  treasury  the  very 

20G 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

reliquary  that  contained  those  relics,  besides  many 
other  precious  things,  such  as  the  gemmed  fork  of 
Charlemagne,  a  sliver  of  the  true  cross,  the  head  of 
Oswald,  King  of  Northumbria,  who  died  in  the  year 
642,  the  geometry  from  which  the  holy  Bernward 
taught  Emperor  Otto  III.  And  all  at  once  you 
come  upon  a  thing  that  transports  you  in  a  trice  be- 
yond the  Alps  into  the  hush  of  another  holy  treasure- 
house  below  the  hill  of  Fiesole.  It  is  a  perfect  Uttle 
altar  by  Fra  Angelico. 

Worn  out  by  the  incessant  demands  of  so  much 
beauty,  I  left  the  building  to  rest  for  an  hour  on  the 
smooth  lawns,  beneath  the  venerable  lindens  of  the 
Domhof.  The  treasury  had  taken  me  to  "the  warm 
South" ;  but  here  for  the  first  time  on  my  pilgrimage 
I  caught  a  breath  of  the  peaceful  seclusion,  the  idyl- 
lic secret  charm  of  the  English  cathedral  close. 

A  citizen  came  to  sit  beside  me  and  to  relate*  how, 
in  that  very  place,  until  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  boys  of  Hildesheim  had  annually 
played  at  Charlemagne  and  the  Heathen,  a  game  in 
which"  the  Irmensaule  in  effigy  was  finally  stoned 
and  overthrown. 

The  old  gentleman  pointed  to  the  gilded  cathedral 
cupola  that  sheltered  the  old  heathen  pillar.  "That 
also  has  a  story,"  he  said.  "In  the  year  1367  the 
Brunswickers  surprised  us  in  overpowering  num- 

207 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

bers.  Then  good  Bishop  Gerhardt  put  himself  at 
the  head  of  our  Httle  army  and  prayed  to  the  Holy 
Virgin.  'It  is  for  thee  to  decide  now  whether  thou 
wilt  live  henceforth  under  a  roof  of  thatch  or  of 
gold.'  As  our  men  approached  the  great  host  of 
Brunswick,  they  were  dismayed  but  the  Bishop 
stretched  forth  his  left  arm,  crying,  'Leven  Kerle, 
truret  nich,  hier  hebbe  ek  noch  dusend  in  miner 
Maven.'  ('My  dear  fellows,  be  not  dismayed.  I 
have  here  a  thousand  more  [men]  up  my  sleeve.') 
Then  they  knew  that  the  good  bishop  carried  in  his 
sleeve  Hildesheim's  greatest  treasure,  the  reliquary 
of  the  Virgin,  and,  taking  heart,  they  put  the  enemy 
to  rout,  slaying  fifteen  hundred  of  them  and  captur- 
ing rich  spoils.  EfVer  since,"  the  old  gentleman 
concluded,  "our  dear  Lady  has  lived  under  a  golden 
roof." 

Not  far  from  this  quiet  close  I  found  another  feast 
of  beauty. 

The  lawns  and  gardens  surrounding  the  Church 
of  St.  Michael  meant  renewed  thoughts  of  old  Eng- 
land, and  the  interior  brought  back  like  a  refrain  the 
holiest  memories  of  Italy.  For  though  the  Roman- 
esque is  more  truly  the  national  style  of  Germany 
than  any  other,  yet  this  most  perfect  of  Northern 
Romanesque  interiors  cannot  help  suggesting  the 
land  of  its  birth.     The  alternation  of  light  and  dark 

208 


THE  NAVE  OF  ST.  MICHAEL'S  CHLRCH 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

blocks  in  the  transept  arches  reminds  one  of  Siena, 
while  the  pure  beauty  and  variety  of  the  capitals 
take  one  back  to  Ravenna.  These  capitals  pass  from 
the  simple  "dice"  design  of  the  year  1000  to  the 
timid  attempts  at  low  relief  of  the  middle,  and  the 
high  relief  of  the  end  of  the  eleventh  century,  with 
grotesques  and  even  medallions  between  the  angel 
corners.  These,  in  turn,  pass  into  the  luxuriant 
stone  foliage  of  the  twelfth  century,  peopled  with 
little  faces  and  figures. 

It  pays  to  prowl  long  in  St.  Michael's,  for  there  is 
many  a  surprise  in  store  for  the  appreciative,  such  as 
the  eight  archaic  beatitudes  over  the  columns  of  the 
southern  aisle,  with  their  hint  of  Assyrian  influence; 
or  the  delightful  angels  and  saints  on  each  side  of 
the  wall  separating  the  western  choir  from  the 
northern  transept;  the  tombs,  the  altarpieces,  and 
the  crypt  where  Bernward  reposes  and  shows  himself 
even  here  for  the  saint  and  artist  that  he  was  by  the 
flowing  Latin  hexameters  of  his  own  epitaph.  It  is 
a  satisfaction  to  know  that  he  made  his  famous  doors 
and  Christ  Pillar  for  this  sanctuary,  and  that  they 
have  not,  until  recent  years,  been  compelled  to  en- 
dure the  baroque  cathedral  interior. 

St.  Michael's  crowning  glory  is  the  painted 
wooden  ceiling  of  1180,  the  only  one  of  its  kind 
north  of  the  Alps.    It  gives  the  genealogy  of  Christ 

10  211 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

from  Adam  down,  with  a  feeling  for  composition,  a 
restraint,  and  a  knowledge  of  anatomy  quite  unusual 
in  Romanesque  painting.  And  there  is  a  touch,  too, 
of  the  Germany  we  know.  For  if  you  look  long 
enough  you  discover  that  the  tree  back  of  Eve  is 
filled  with  portraits  of  the  five  senses,  while  in 
Adam's  tree  reposes  the  Herrgott  himself — a  con- 
ception truly  German  in  its  lack  of  gallantry. 

It  is  an  uncanny  experience  to  be  dreaming  alone 
in  this  church  and  to  be  roused  by  a  sudden  chorus  of 
horrible  laughter  and  heartrending  shrieks  from  the 
insane  in  the  adjoining  cloisters,  which  are  now  used 
as  an  asylum.  And  it  is  even  more  distressing  to 
visit  the  cloisters  and  see  the  poor  souls  hurrying 
about  distractedly  among  the  foliage  and  flowers, 
without  the  least  appreciation  for  the  lovely  arcades 
and  portals  where  the  late  Romanesque  is  so  happily 
fused  with  the  early  Gothic. 

The  Church  of  the  Magdalene  is  worth  visiting 
for  the  sake  of  its  three  treasures:  a  jeweled  cross 
containing  splinters  of  the  true  cross,  and  a  pair  of 
wonderful  candlesticks,  all  the  work  of  Bernward 
and  prophetic  of  the  Renaissance  goldsmiths  of 
Nuremberg. 

It  is  not  often  that  one  city  possesses  two  leading 
examples  of  the  same  architectural  style.  But  St. 
Godehard's  is  one  of  St.  Michael's  dearest  rivals  and 

212 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

even  surpasses  the  sister  church  in  the  purity  and 
homogeneity  of  its  ornament,  though  it  has  recently 
been  disfigured  by  a  great  deal  of  garish  paint.  It 
has,  besides,  an  interesting  portal  and  a  precious 
little  treasury. 

The  Church  of  the  Cross  is  one  of  those  fascinat- 
ing churches  that  are  coming  more  and  more  to  light 
in  our  day— churches  built  originally  to  war  not 
against  spiritual  wickedness,  but  against  flesh  and 
blood.  For  the  Kreuz  Kirche  was  originally  an  out- 
work of  the  Bishop's  Fortress  on  Cathedral  Hill. 
And  the  chronicler  Saxo  records  that  toward  the  end 
of  the  eleventh  century  Bishop  Hezilo  changed  it 
from  a  home  of  war  (domiim  belli)  to  a  home  of 
peace  (domum  pads) — a  transformation  even  more 
commendable  than  that  of  swords  into  plowshares. 
May  this  act  not  have  been  in  expiation  of  Hezilo's 
share  in  the  "Blood-bath"  at  Goslar? 

The  to"\\Ti  halls  of  Hildesheim  and  of  Brunswick 
neatly  contrast  the  spirit  of  the  two  places.  The  low, 
level  Rathaus  of  democratic  Brunswick  is  faced  with 
a  series  of  ten  double  arcades,  all  free  and  equal. 
Hildesheim's  Rathaus  sounds  a  note  unmistakably 
aristocratic,  with  its  commanding  western  gable 
flanked  by  proud  clock-  and  window-towers. 

The  interior  at  Bi-unswick  is  plain;  here  it  is  re- 
splendent.   And  it  is  a  significant  fact  that  the  fine 

213 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

frescos  of  local  history  and  legend,  begun  by  Prell  in 
1887,  were  the  pioneers  of  the  recent  German  revival 
of  the  old  al  fresco  technique.  The  building  teems 
with  legend. 

On  the  apex  of  the  western  facade  the  Hildes- 
heimer  Jungfer,  the  Maid  of  Hildesheim,  stands 
proudly  under  a  baldachin.  She  is  supposed  to  be 
no  other  than  the  old  heathen  goddess  who  sent  the 
sacred  snow,  and  who  once,  in  the  form  of  the  Holy 
Virgin,  appeared  to  a  maiden  lost  in  the  woods  be- 
yond the  wall  and  led  her  back  to  her  home.  She  it 
was  who  used  to  stand  on  the  ramparts  in  time  of 
siege  and  catch  the  cannon-balls  of  the  foe  in  her 
apron.  So  that,  out  of  gratitude,  the  Hildesheimers 
graved  her  image  on  their  municipal  banner  and  seal. 

On  the  clock-tower,  below  the  red-frocked  town 
piper,  who  pipes  the  halves  and  trumpets  the  hours, 
is  the  head  of  a  Jew  who  opens  and  closes  his  eyes 
and  mouth  at  the  sound  of  the  trumpet,  as  if  in  pain 
at  the  thought  of  another  unprofitable  hour  gone  by. 
They  call  it  the  head  of  a  would-be  traitor  who  was 
caught  in  the  fact  and  shut  in  the  Rathaus  dungeon 
to  die  of  starvation. 

In  the  northern  wall  a  measure  is  chiseled,  with 
these  words:  "Dat  is  de  Garen  mathe."  ("This  is 
the  measure  for  yarn.")  You  are  told  that  the 
widow  of  a  local  yarn-dealer  was  once  wakened  by 

211 


R\^TiS^^^'"^"'~ 


THfc.  uLD-L/tR.MA.N   HuLbh' 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

her  late  spouse,  who  complained  bitterly  that  he  had 
to  suffer  so  much  pain  in  his  present  home  because, 
in  life,  he  had  bought  with  a  long  measure  and  sold 
with  a  short  one.  Whereupon  he  cast  an  iron  ruler 
upon  the  table,  crying,  "Dat  is  de  Garen  mathe!" 
and  vanished.  When  the  widow  came  to  her  senses 
the  ruler  had  disappeared,  but  the  measure  was 
burned  through  the  table,  through  all  the  floors  of 
the  house,  and  so  deep  beneath  the  cellar  that  the 
bottom  of  the  hole  could  not  be  plumbed.  Then  the 
magistrate  graved  the  length  of  the  measure  upon 
the  wall  of  the  Rathaus  as  an  abiding  stimulus  to 
honesty.  It  is  possible  that  the  moral  reaction  after 
this  incident  inspired  the  rather  optimistic  inscrip- 
tion on  the  Kramergildehaus  in  the  Andreas-Platz: 

Weget  recht  un  glike, 

So  werdet  gi  salich  un  ricke. 

(Weigh  justly  and  equally,  which 
Will  make  you  happy  and  rich.) 

What  draws  most  of  us,  after  all,  to  Hildesheim  is 
not  the  lure  of  its  churches  and  public  buildings,  po- 
tent as  it  is;  but  rather  the  lure  of  the  quaint  streets 
and  squares,  and  of  the  houses  where  German  pri- 
vate architecture  touches  its  zenith.  Though  these 
distinguished  dwellings  are  not  jolly  and  intimate 

217 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

like  Brunswick's,  they  are  more  glamourous.  These 
narrow,  "Haufendorf"  streets  disengage  no  least 
hint  of  Brunswick's  democracy,  but  they  are  the 
abiding-places  of  romance.  And,  touched  by  the 
shadow  of  these  strange,  rich  fa9ades,  the  traveler 
peers  instinctively  into  every  coach  that  clatters  by 
for  a  glimpse  of  the  fairy  godmother  with  her  magic 
wand,  of  the  Httle  kobold  with  the  wishing-ring  for 
the  first  who  may  befriend  him,  or  of  an  authentic 
local  sprite  like  Hiitchen  of  the  large  hat,  or  Huckup 
the  bogy-man  of  Hildesheim,  whose  statue  is  under 
the  big  tree  in  the  Hoher  Weg.  Nor  is  this  curiosity 
unjustifiable.  For  what  has  happened  may  happen; 
and  Hildesheim  has,  in  its  day,  supplied  the  stuff  for 
many  a  fairy-tale.  There  is,  for  example,  the  true 
story  of  the  Little  Princess : 

Once  upon  a  time  there  came  to  Bakermaster 

L in  the  Goschen-Strasse  a  beautiful  maiden 

begging  for  work.  The  old  man  put  on  his  spec- 
tacles, noted  her  delicate  features  and  soft  hands, 
and  sent  her  about  her  business.  "Thank  heaven," 
he  cried,  "that  we  no  longer  need  a  nurse-maid! 
Now  if  you  were  only  the  sort  to  do  heavy  barn  and 
field  work  we  might  give  you  a  trial." 

The  maiden  wept  bitterly,  protesting  that  nothing 
worthy  a  servant  was  foreign  to  her  nature.  So  the 
kind-hearted  baker  consented  to  try  her. 

218 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

She  was  a  decided  success.  The  cows  were  kept  as 
soft  and  sleek  as  cats,  and  no  man  could  keep  up 
with  her  in  the  field.  So  that  the  old  couple  were 
charmed  and  loved  her  as  their  own  daughter. 

When  the  neighbors  dropped  in  of  an  evening  to 
discuss  the  hard  times  and  the  war  over  a  mug  and  a 
pipe,  the  maiden,  who  sat  by  at  the  spinning-wheel, 
would  often  join  in  and  talk  of  emperors  and  kings 
as  though  she  were  quite  at  home  with  such  folk. 
Then  some  one  would  speak  up ; 

"Maiden,  you  seem  to  know  the  world  well. 
Where,  then,  do  you  come  from?" 

But  she  would  only  heave  a  deep  sigh  and  moisten 
her  flax  with  her  tears. 

There  was  one  old  fellow  who  liked  to  pinch  her 
rosy  cheeks  when  no  one  was  looking  and  call  her  the 
Little  Princess.  And  presently  the  whole  neighbor- 
hood took  up  the  name. 

One  morning  the  baker's  farm-wagon  was  unload- 
ing before  his  portal,  and  the  Little  Princess  was  so 
busy  with  her  pitchfork  that  she  did  not  hear  the 
cries  and  huzzas  that  suddenly  burst  forth  around 
her.  The  whole  Goschen-Strasse  was  so  packed  with 
folk  that  an  apple  could  n't  have  fallen  to  the  ground 
{dass  kein  Apfel  mehr  zur  Erde  konnte) . 

A  company  of  gold-laced  lackeys  made  way  with 
their  silver  drum-majors'  sticks  for  a  great  float 

219 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

filled  with  more  than  a  hundred  Moors  and  apes 
who  rent  the  air  with  trumpet  and  drum. 

Only  the  Little  Princess  labored  on  and  took  no 
notice. 

Finally  came  a  golden  coach-and-six.  A  beauti- 
ful knight,  clad  in  gold  and  silver,  sprang  out, 
caught  the  Little  Princess  in  his  arms,  and  ex- 
claimed: "Ah,  my  heart's  love,  Marianne,  our  time 
of  probation  is  over!  The  Kaiser  has  been  beaten, 
and  we  may  now  be  married!" 

The  lackeys  sprang  to  lift  her  into  the  coach. 

"But,"  protested  the  Little  Princess,  "only  see 
how  I  look!    Let  me  first  change  my  dress." 

"Nay,  nay!"  cried  the  prince,  proudly.  "This 
dress  we  will  keep  forever  as  a  memento." 

Then  the  prince  threw  the  astonished  bakermaster 
a  great  purse  of  gold,  and  they  vanished  amid  the 
acclamations  of  the  populace. 

Though  the  Goschen-Strasse  is  one  of  the  plainest 
streets  in  town,  one  glance  at  it  will  convince  any 
skeptic  that  this  story  is  true.  Such  things  happen 
inevitably  in  such  a  setting.  And  in  wandering 
through  the  richer  streets  one's  imagination  is  posi- 
tively overpowered  with  all  the  surprising  and  lovely 
events  that  have,  or  ought  to  have,  taken  place  there. 
It  is  like  walking  bodily  through  the  pages  of 
Grimm. 

220 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

In  our  day  it  is  the  mode  to  shrug  one's  shoulders 
at  the  German  Renaissance.  And,  indeed,  what  with 
the  tenacity  of  its  predecessor  the  Gothic,  and  the 
untimely  disaster  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  the 
style  had  small  chance  to  mature  in  the  Fatherland. 

But  no  one  who  knows  such  places  as  Hildesheim 
and  Nuremberg,  Danzig  and  Rothenburg— towns 
especially  spared  in  the  great  war— can  feel  like  scoff- 
ing at  the  German  Renaissance.  For  there  the  style 
makes  up  in  picturesqueness  for  its  departure  from 
the  canons  of  Italian  proportion.  It  is  like  the 
young  poet  at  college  who  abjures  conic  sections  to 
go  in  for  literature  and  music.  Its  faults  are  simply 
the  extravagances  of  romantic  youth.  For  the  Ger- 
man Renaissance  is,  at  its  best,  eternally  young  and 
eternally  romantic. 

It  must  have  been  a  dim  realization  that  this  fresh 
charm  scarcely  befitted  their  proud,  pious  aristocracy 
that  made  the  Hildesheimers  try  to  counteract  its 
effect  with  solemn,  pompous,  pedantic  carvings  and 
inscriptions. 

The  "Old-German  House,"  for  instance,  at  the 
head  of  the  Oster-Strasse  is  a  delightful  composition 
of  three  sharp  gables  with  a  great  bay-window  as 
high  as  the  roof  and  four  tiers  of  wooden  friezes, 
inimitable  at  a  distance.  But  these  turn  out  to  be 
representations  of  the  elements  and  the  heavenly 

223 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

bodies,  and  prominent  among  them  is  Death  with  a 
youth,  a  sage,  and  this  motto: 

Hodie  mihl — eras  tibi. 
(To-day  for  me — to-morrow  for  thee.) 

These  wide,  lofty  bays  are  as  characteristic  of  Hil- 
desheim  as  small,  delicate  oriels  are  of  Nuremberg. 
And  it  would  be  hard  to  decide  which  kind  is  the 
more  picturesque.  There  are  two  fine  bays  in  the 
Wedekind  House  in  the  Markt,  with  a  seven-storied 
gable  rising  between  them.  The  whole  house  is  over- 
spun  with  filigree  like  one  of  the  elaborate  reli- 
quaries in  the  cathedral,  with  an  effect  indescribably 
vivacious.  But  these,  floor  by  floor,  are  the  subjects 
of  the  carvings : 

I.  Truth,  Justice,  Charity,  Hope,  Wealth,  Pru- 
dence, Fortitude,  Courage,  Temperance,  Patience, 
Faith. 

II.  Grammar,  Dialectics,  Rhetoric,  Arithmetic, 
Music,  Woman  with  Pitcher  and  Glass,  Geometry, 
Woman  with  Soap-bubble,  Astrology. 

III.  A  Tower  (earth),  A  Ship  (water),  A  Thun- 
derbolt (fire).  Avarice,  Air,  Sloth,  Woman  with 
Pitcher,  Pride,  Luxury,  Appetite,  Envy,  Wrath. 

Even  the  kind  ladies  with  pitchers,  there  doubtless 
to  moisten  these  dry  abstractions,  must  have  ap- 

224 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

peared  with  the  sanction  of  those  ecclesiastics  who 
opened  Hildesheim's  first  saloon  under  the  auspices 
of  the  cathedral. 

There  are  many  pious  inscriptions,  such  as: 

Affgunst  der  ludc  kann  dich  nicht  schaden, 
was  Godt  will  das  muss  geraden. 

(Man's  malice  cannot  injure  you; 

What  God  intends  that  must  go  through.) 

Here  is  a  hint  of  the  truculent,  misanthropic  note 
that  reechoes  constantly  in  the  inscriptions  of  these 
aristocrats  and  would-be  aristocrats. 

The  Wedekind  House  shows  the  more  elaborate 
and  nervous  by  contrast  with  the  dignified  Gothic 
"Temple  House"  next  door,  with  its  narrow,  tre- 
foiled  windows,  its  great  spaces  of  repose,  and  the 
loopholed  watch-turrets  on  each  side. 

And  the  Roland  Fountain  before  them  helps  to 
harmonize  the  two  houses,  combining  as  it  does  the 
decorativeness  of  the  one  with  the  nobility  and  calm 
of  the  other. 

Across  the  Markt  is  a  corner  which  every  lover  of 
Germany  holds  as  a  hallowed  spot.  Here  stands  the 
Butchers'  gildhouse  —  the  Knochenhaueramtshaus 
—  famed  as  the  finest  half-timbered  building  in  the 
land.     It  is  a  splendid  specimen  of  the  early  Re- 

225 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

naissance,  and,  through  its  model  in  the  leading  mu- 
seums, the  world  has  come  to  love  the  rhythmical 
proportions  of  its  baldly  projecting  stories,  its  sharp, 
lofty  gable,  its  purely  -modeled  corbels  and  friezes. 
So  that  its  partial  destruction  by  fire  in  1884  was 
mourned  as  an  international  calamity.  Through 
this  fire  one  of  the  mottos  on  the  eastern  fa9ade  was 
given  a  lamentable  architectural  application : 

Arm  und  reich, 

Der  Tod  macht  Alles  gleich. 

(For  poor  and  rich  the  sequel 
By  Death  is  brought  out  equal.) 

But  the  house  has  been  splendidly  restored. 

It  would  be  useless  to  attempt  describing  within 
these  limits  allpf  the  most  fascinating  among  the 
four  hundred  noteworthy  old  houses  of  Hildesheim. 
It  must  suffice  merely  to  mention  a  few  tjq^es. 

On  the  corner  where  one  comes  to  the  Hoher  Weg 
is  the  Ratsapotheke,  with  its  long-winded  Latin 
hexameters  and  German  doggerel  and  with  one  of 
Hildesheim' s  few  fine  Renaissance  portals.  Farther 
on  is  the  old  Ratsweinschenke,  with  solemn  biblical 
illustrations  of  the  wine  business  such  as  the  Noah 
episode  and  the  spies  importing  grapes  from  the 
Promised  Land. 

226 


rnvj 


jtti  fp 


/]||tW  V^.rrw 


THE  PILI.AK  IIOLSH  IX  THE  ANDKI-AS-PLATZ 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

The  Hildesheimers  liked  to  copy  the  architecture 
as  well  as  the  customs  of  their  friends  the  fairies. 
The  fa9ade  of  the  Kaiserhaus  is  a  thing  as  curiously 
inverted  as  a  "goop."  For  the  elaborate  stone  oriel 
and  portal  reproduce  the  wood-carver's  technique  so 
well  that  thej'-  seem  petrified,  and  the  expanse  of 
wall  filled  with  medallions  of  Roman  emperors 
seems  as  if  copied  from  some  rich  ceiling  of  paneled 
oak. 

These  people  were  fond  of  building  toy  streets 
like  the  Hoken  and  the  Juden-Strasse — streets  al- 
most as  narrow  as  the  narrowest  Venetian  lanes; 
streets  whose  houses,  set  capriciously  askew,  almost 
allow  opposite  neighbors  to  shake  hands  from  their 
projecting  stories. 

They  delighted  in  toy  houses  like  the  little  one  in 
the  Andreas-Platz,  set  perpendicular  to  the  sharply 
sloping  street ;  or  the  Pillar  House,  under  which  the 
way  leads  into  the  square.  This  beautiful  dwelling 
is  a  veritable  pictm-e-book  of  the  Virtues,  the  Muses, 
and  the  gods  of  Rome.  One  unconsciously  expects 
these  wooden  people  to  come  alive  all  of  a  sudden, 
like  the  gingerbread  children  on  the  witch's  house  in 
"Hansel  und  Gretel."  It  might  weU  have  really  been 
a  witch's  house ;  for  many  such  old  persons  have  been 
done  to  death  in  Hildesheim.  There  is  only  one 
thing  to  spoil  its  delightful  atmosphere.  It  is  that 
self-conscious  quotation  about  mens  conscia  recti, 

229 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

The  Hildesheimers  were  fond  of  composing  an 
amusing  line  of  roofs  such  as  the  one  northeast  of  St. 
Andrew's,  and  of  leaving  one  grand  old  Gothic 
house  (like  Trinity  Hospital)  to  temper  the  vivacity 
of  a  Renaissance  neighborhood  like  an  ancient  oak 
set  in  a  grove  of  silver  birches. 

They  were  fond  of  packing  alleys  full  of  romantic, 
strangely  formed  gables,  and  winding  them  allur- 
ingly away  into  the  unknown  as  they  wound  the 
Eckemecker-Strasse  away  from  the  dominating 
tower  of  St.  Andrew's.  This  street  name  is  onomat- 
opoetic;  for,  with  its  suggestion  of  bleating  flocks, 
it  means  "The  Street  of  Sheepskin  Tanners."  It  is 
a  name  fitter  for  laughing  Brunswick  than  for  long- 
faced  Hildesheim.  Here  stands  one  of  the  most  fas- 
cinating houses  in  town,  the  Roland  Hospital,  with 
its  tall,  characteristic  bay  and  its  five  far-projecting 
stories  adorned  with  scenes  from  the  former  rural 
life  of  Simon  Arnholt,  its  builder,  such  as  sheep- 
shearing,  hunting,  wine-making,  pig-sticking,  sow- 
ing, and  sandbagging  the  police.  At  least,  I  thought 
them  police  at  first,  but  found  later  that  they  were 
only  Philistines  being  smitten  with  the  jaw-bone 
of  an  ass.  And  there  is  an  inscription  with  the  same 
old  note  of  defiance,  as  though  whoever  built  a  fine 
house  in  this  place  had  to  become  a  mark  for  envious 
tongues : 

230 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

Wer  bawen  will  an  freier  strassen, 

muss  sich  vel  unniitz  geswetz  nich  iren  lassen. 

(He  who  would  build  upon  the  public  walk 
Must  not  be  turned  aside  by  idle  talk.) 


The  Schuh-Strasse  runs  parallel  to  the  Eckemecker- 
Strasse  and,  in  the  matter  of  picturesqueness,  is  a 
worthy  companion.  But  you  will  find  more  note- 
worthy houses  by  turning  down  the  Bohlweg — 
which  derives  its  name  from  the  planks,  or  Bohlen, 
laid  down  in  olden  times  for  crossing  the  marshy 
remnants  of  the  cathedral  moat.  Here,  at  the  head 
of  the  Kreuz-Strasse,  is  the  Domschenke,  or  Cathe- 
dral Wine-house;  and  opposite  is  its  first  rival,  the 
Golden  Angel,  a  charming  early  Renaissance  build- 
ing called  "Der  Alte  Schaden"  (The  Old  Damage) , 
because  it  damaged  the  monopoly  of  the  Dom- 
schenke. It  bears  a  relief  of  five  horses  straining 
at  three  wine-butts;  and  behind  them  appears  mine 
host  solemnly  reckoning  up  his  gains. 

Not  many  doors  down  the  Kreuz-Strasse  is  the 
tavern  called  "Der  Neue  Schaden"  (the  New  Dam- 
age), the  second  rival.  And  a  serious  rival  it  was; 
for  it  introduced  into  Hildesheim  that  pale  amber 
fluid  which  was  destined  never  to  check  its  mad  ca- 
reer until  it  became  the  national  drink.  This  fine 
transition  fa9ade  actually  bears  humorous  carvings. 

231 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

"Fish-tailed  persons,"  writes  learned  Herr  Ger- 
land,  "are  drinking  there  and  experiencing  all  the 
effects  of  drinking,  while  heads,  interposed,  reflect 
the  impressions  which  are  produced  upon  them  by 
these  phenomena." 

No  wonder  the  New  Damage  was  so  daring  as  to 
be  humorous,  for  that  jolly  tavern  was  always 
the  hotbed  of  radicalism.  And  in  Luther's  time 
it  was  the  headquarters  of  the  Reformation 
Club,  which  used  to  make  it  a  base  of  supplies  in 
their  horse-play  campaigns  against  the  old-fogy 
Catholics.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  what  these  zealous 
youths  must  have  done  to  the  Reformation  chron- 
icler Johannes  Oldecop,  Dean  of  the  Holy  Cross. 
For,  upon  the  fa9ade  of  his  house  around  the  corner, 
the  old  gentleman  poured  out  all  his  bitterness 
against  the  new  faith.  His  fury  may  be  seen  even 
in  the  jumbled  order  of  the  words,  which  read  like 
a  Chinese  puzzle: 

Anno  dm.  1549.  Virtus,  ecclesia.  clerus  demon,  simonia. 
cessat.  turbatur.  errat.  regnat.  dominatur.  verbum  dni 
manet  in  eternum  nil  nisi  divinum  stabile,  humana  laborant, 
lignea  cum  saxis  sunt  peritura 

(a.d.  1549.  Virtue  ceases,  the  church  is  in  an  uproar, 
the  clergy  has  gone  astray,  the  devil  rules,  simony  reigns. 
God's  word  remains  for  all  eternity.  The  divine  alone 
stands.    The  human  is  in  peril.    Woodandstonewill  pass  away.) 

232 


THE  ECKHMliCKliRSTKASSE 


HILDESHEIM  AND  FAIRYLAND 

Past  the  Square  of  the  Holy  Cross,  where  on 
December  28,  1221,  the  boy  choristers  were  still  cele- 
brating with  bonfires  the  heathen  festival  of  the  win- 
ter solstice  (Sonnenwende) ,  the  way  leads  "Am 
Platz"  and  down  the  Friesenstieg  to  the  Braun- 
schweiger-Strasse,  with  its  wealth  of  interesting 
houses.  And  at  the  head  of  the  long  Wollenweber- 
Strasse  there  comes  a  sight  which  one  is  glad  to  carry 
away  as  the  final  impression  of  this  fairy  town. 

Flanked  by  quaint  carven  houses,  there  rises, 
from  the  old  city  wall  beyond,  the  beautiful  Kehr- 
wieder  Turm,  or  Turn-again  Tower. 

Once  upon  a  time  when  all  the  world  was  young, 
the  little  bell  in  this  Kehrwieder  Turm  rang  out  for 
the  Maid  of  Hildesheim  as  she  was  wandering,  lost, 
in  the  deep  woods  down  beyond  the  wall,  calling  her 
back  to  her  beloved  city. 

And  to  this  day,  as  the  Fountain  of  Trevi  calls 
back  to  the  sound  of  its  murmuring  waters  all  who 
have  known  the  Eternal  City,  so  the  Kehrwieder 
Turm  forever  rings  out  to  all  who  have  come  under 
the  magical  spell  of  Hildesheim— "Turn  Again!" 


11  235 


VII 

LEIPSIC 

N  visiting   northern  Germany    the  traveler 
^  usually  keeps  the  Prussian  capital  as  his 
base  of  operations  until  he  seeks  the  South 
by  way  of  Saxony. 

After  the  aggressiveness  and  modernity 
of  Berhn,  it  is  a  relief  to  mingle  with  the  quiet, 
matter-of-fact  people  of  Leipsic,  to  rest  one's  eyes 
again  on  a  Renaissance  gable,  again  to  loiter  in  streets 
with  quaint  and  homely  names.  In  many  of  these  old 
names  there  is  a  flavor  of  poetry  that  brings  the 
stranger  at  once  into  terms  of  intimacy  with  the 
town.  They  touch  the  imagination  because  they 
were  christened  naturally  by  the  wit  of  the  people, 
and  always  christened  for  their  most  salient  feature. 
Windmill  Alley  led  in  bygone  days  to  a  mill  be- 
yond the  wall  and  ditch;  along  Sparrow  Mountain, 
a  thoroughfare  almost  as  flat  as  Sahara,  ran  a  prison 
wall,  crowded  winter  and  summer  with  sparrows. 
Begging   Street   pierced   the   slums.      In   Barefoot 

236 


LEIPSIC 

Alley  was  a  cloister  of  ascetic  monks,  and  the  chiv- 
alry of  the  JNIiddle  Ages  lived  in  Knight  Street. 
"Along  JNIilk  Island"  was  over  against  a  dairy,  while 
from  Pearl-stringer  Alley,  Tub-maker  Street,  Bell- 
caster  Street,  Night-watchman  Street,  and  Rubber 
Alley  the  corresponding  occupations  have  not  yet 
wholly  passed  away.  In  olden  times  one  small  lane 
actually  bore  three  names  simultaneously:  Town 
Piper  Alley,  Constable  Alley,  and  Midwife  Alley; 
for  these  personages  all  dwelt  there.  The  Briihl, 
called  after  a  Slavic  word  for  swamp,  is  the  only 
street  to  commemorate  the  Wendish  origin  of  the 
city  and  the  patience  of  its  builders;  but  though  a 
few  of  these  delightful  names  have  passed  away 
through  sheer  anachronism,  enough  are  left  to  give 
the  place  an  intimate,  Old-World,  human  flavor.  A 
city  that  preserves  a  Barefoot  Alley  deserves  well  of 
mankind,  and  I  prefer  small  beer  within  its  shadows 
to  the  bright  new  champagne  of  North  Street. 

To  one  who  for  a  time  had  half  forgotten  that  the 
larger  German  cities  still  held  anything  old,  the 
Princes'  House  in  the  Grimmaische-Strasse  brought 
a  delightful  shock  of  recognition.  From  those 
round  red  oriel  windows  flanking  the  gable,  six- 
teenth-century princes  used  to  display  their  finery  to 
the  folk  below — student  princes  who  came  to  study 
in  the  university  round  the  corner  and  left  their 

237 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

coats  of  arms  among  the  carvings  on  the  window- 
sills.  The  house  is  Leipsic's  best  example  of  the 
German  Renaissance. 

Through  a  narrow  gulf  of  street  the  oldest  church 
looks  down  upon  this  corner.  The  Church  of  St. 
Nicholas  was  built  in  1017,  two  years  after  the  city- 
was  first  mentioned  in  history  as  Urbs  Libzi.  Like 
the  later  churches,  it  suflPered  many  things  during 
the  sieges  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  but  not  so  sadly 
as  from  its  "restoration"  in  the  "Wig  Time.'*  Then 
the  jealous  vandals  of  classicism,  with  a  naivete 
pathetic  to  recall,  destroyed  what  beauty  the  baroque 
time  had  spared  and  threw  the  beautiful  altarpieces 
of  Cranach  into  the  loft  where  Goethe  discovered 
them  in  1815,  publishing  the  matter  with  righteous 
wrath.     They  are  now  in  the  museum. 

Oppo'site  the  gracious  green  of  St.  Nicholas's 
tower  is  a  hearty,  rustic  kind  of  architecture  too 
seldom  seen  in  cities,  a  red-timbered  house  with 
piquant  gables,  and  a  carved  bay-window  in  rococo 
crowned  by  the  motto, 

Ohn'  Gottes  Gunst  all  Bau'n  umsunst. 
(By  God  ungraced,  all  building  's  waste.) 

The  roof,  broken  by  little  gable-windows,  leads  the 
eye  onward  to  the  vivacity  of  old  Leipsic's  sky-line 
—red  tiles  tossed  into  heaps  and  flowing  together  as 

238 


LEIPSIC 

in  a  choppy  sea,  yet  with  a  large  unity,  as  if  com- 
posed by  a  modern  French  sculptor  of  the  rugged 
school. 

Next  door  is  the  gaily  frescoed  facade  of  a  peas- 
ants' inn,  "The  Village  Jug,"  with  uncouth  win- 
dows of  glass  stained  in  every  sense,  the  head  of  a 
red  ox  serving  for  signboard;  while  over  beyond  the 
church  is  a  Renaissance  gable  with  three  superim- 
posed orders  of  classical  columns,  its  ancient  colors 
quite  worn  away.  For  in  the  sixteenth  century 
these  stone  fa9ades  were  all  painted,  "mit  gar  kunst- 
reichen  und  lustigen  Gemalde  gebauet  und  ausge- 
putzet,"  writes  an  old  chronicler.  (Builded  and. 
furbished   with  paintings  "real  art-rich"  and  jolly.) 

Passages  as  narrow  as  those  of  Hamburg  run 
through  baroque  courtyards  to  the  Reichs-Strasse — 
the  Via  Imperii  of  the  Middle  Ages— one  of  the  two 
principal  merchant  highways  through  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire.  This  is  richer  than  the  Nikolai- 
Strasse  in  such  fa9ades  as  the  "Castle  Cellar,"  with 
its  massive,  undulating  gable,  its  flat-arched  doors  of 
worm-eaten,  iron-bound  wood,  and  its  barred,  diag- 
onal window. 

From  the  Grimmaische-Strasse  close  at  hand  I 
entered  a  large  court  and  warmed  one  of  Leipsic's 
reticent  sons  gradually  into  garrulity. 

"Look  about  you,"  he  said.  "In  olden  times  this 
Hof  was  called  'Little  Leipsic,'  just  as  Leipsic  was 

239 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

then  called  'Little  Paris.'  During  the  fairs  the  cost- 
liest articles  of  luxury  were  sold  here,  and  it  was  the 
resort  of  fashion.  Behold!"  He  pointed  out  a 
half -hidden  door.  "I  advise  you  to  enter.  You 
will  see  the  most  interesting  nook  in  town." 

I  groped  my  way  down  a  crooked  passage  into  a 
wine-cellar  the  Romanesque  vaulting  of  which,  mel- 
low with  old  colors,  was  upheld  by  a  single  pillar 
covered  with  manuscripts.  I  spelled  out  a  signa- 
ture. It  read  "J.  W.  von  Goethe."  On  the  walls 
were  pictures  of  the  poet,  a  black  silhouette  of  his 
student  days,  a  musty  print  of  Doctor  Faustus.  Be- 
wildered, I  sat  down  and  strove  to  conjure  up  a 
sophomoric  acquaintance  with  "Wahrheit  und  Dich- 
tung."  Then  the  waiter  brought  a  bottle  labeled 
"Auerbach's  Keller,"  and  with  a  gasp  of  joy  I  real- 
ized that  this  was  the  immortal  den  where  Mephis- 
topheles  once  bored  holes  in  the  table  and  made  red 
and  white  wine  spurt  in  fountains  over  the  good 
burghers.  Down  in  an  ancient  sub-cellar  was  a 
fresco  from  the  time  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War. 
Doctol-  Faustus  was  seated,  with  a  convivial  com- 
pany and  quaint  musical  instruments,  above  the  fol- 
lowing inscription: 

Vive,  bibe,  obgraecare,  memor  Fausti  hujus  et  hujus 
Poenae.  Aderat  claudo  haec — ast  erat  ampla — gradu. 

Freely  rendered; 

240 


LEIPSIC 

Live,  drink,  go  to  the  devil ;  mindful  of  Faustus'  damnation. 
It  had  a  step  that  was  halting,  but  it  came  swiftly  enough. 

Another  scene  showed  the  doctor  galloping  out 
of  the  arched  entrance  on  a  cask  accompanied  by  this 
doggerel : 

Doktor  Faust  zu  dieser  Frist 
aus  Auerbachs  Keller  geritten  ist 

auf  einem  Fass  mit  Wein  geschwind 
welches  gesehn  viel  Menschenkind 

solches  durch  subtile  Kraft  gethan 
und  des  Teufels  Lohn  empfing  daran. 

These  lines  might  be  paraphrased: 

At  this  season  Dr.  Faust 

Out  of  Auerbach's  Cellar  coursed 

On  a  wine-cask  running  wild, 
Seen  by  many  a  mother's  child  — 

Subtle  artist  at  his  play — 
And  the  devil  was  to  pay. 

It  appears  that  tradition  actually  connected  some 
old  master  of  Black  Art  with  Auerbach's  Cellar, 
which  he  used  as  a  stable,  to  the  confusion  of  all 
honest  citizens.  Toward  the  end  of  the  sixteenth 
century  the  tradition  was  transferred  to  the  still 
more  legendary  Faustus,  and  in  this  romantic  set- 
ting,  more   than   two   centuries   later,   the   student 

243 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Goethe  met  with  the  shade  of  his  greatest  hero. 
There  is  a  long  subterranean  passage  still  leading 
from  the  sub-cellar  to  the  university;  and,  what  is 
even  more  shocking,  another  runs  to  the  site  of  a 
former  convent  in  the  neighborhood. 

Behind  the  Old  Rathaus  opposite  is  the  Nasch- 
Markt,  or  Candy  Market.  Near  a  statue  of  Goethe 
stands  the  old  exchange,  an  early  example  of  the 
sandstone  baroque  that  was  imported  from  Dresden 
and  began  to  flourish  after  the  barren  times  of  the 
Thirty  Years'  War.  Much  of  this  architecture  is 
yet  visible  in  the  northeast  corner  of  the  Old  Market 
and  in  the  patrician  houses  of  Katharinen-Strasse, 
the  Fifth  Avenue  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
Strangely  enough,  the  style  has  almost  disappeared 
from  among  the  dwellings  of  Dresden,  and  now 
Leipsic  is  richer  than  any  other  large  German  city 
in  private  baroque  architecture.  Even  two  hundred 
years  ago  the  French  and  Italian  student  journeyed 
hither  to  study  this  gay,  new  art  that  was  transform- 
ing low,  dingy  rooms  into  spacious,  brilliant  halls 
and  chambers  with  great  windows  flamboyant  in 
fruit,  flowers,  leaves,  and  shells,  and  tasseled  lambre- 
quins; with  portals  topped  by  urns  of  plenty  bulg- 
ing in  significant  relation  to  the  well-fed  pillars 
below — an  art  evolved  directly  from  the  interior 
decoration  of  the  period. 

244 


LEIPSIC 

The  Old  JNIarket  is  dominated  by  the  Old  Rathaus, 
a  Renaissance  building  with  many  brick  gables, 
dusky  tiles,  and  a  duskier  green  tower  which  are 
devoutly  worshiped  by  every  true  Leipsicker.  Yet 
somehow  it  lacks  the  atmosphere  of  poetry  which 
one  expects  in  a  Rathaus  of  its  age  and  traditions. 
It  is  solid,  matter-of-fact,  mildly  pleasing,  like  the 
average  citizen,  and  appeals  little  more  than  he  to 
the  imagination  until,  inside,  one  sees  the  small  pil- 
lared balcony,  "the  pipers'  chair,"  where  the  town 
pipers  used  to  play  at  patrician  and  plebeian  festivi- 
ties in  the  days  when  Leipsickers  loved  to  dance  in 
the  great  hall   {''ufs  Rathaus  tanzen"). 

There  is  more  atmosphere  about  the  house  on  the 
Briilil  where  young  Goethe  used  to  court  his 
Gretchen,  the  awakener  of  his  genius;  and,  signifi- 
cantly 'enough,  on  Kiitchen  Schonkopf's  roof  a 
well-weathered  Apollo  stands  above  Romanesque 
gateways  and  gratings,  pointing  toward  heaven.  The 
Briihl  is  a  distinguished  street.  At  Number  3  I 
entered,  walking  between  rails  into  a  Hof  full  of 
trucks  and  meal.  And,  set  in  a  wall  of  brick  and 
cement,  was  a  simple  tablet  with  the  inscription: 


In  this  house  was  born 

Richard  Wagner 

May  22,  1813 

245 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

On  a  hillock,  perched  above  a  picturesque  line  of 
roofs,  the  Church  of  St.  Matthew  is  grateful  to  eyes 
wearied  with  the  levelness  of  Leipsic.  Here  as  in 
all  flat  lands  every  elevation  is  cherished,  and  an 
almost  imperceptible  rise  in  the  Promenade-Ring, 
famous  for  its  view  of  the  New  Rathaus,  has  been 
popularly  christened  the  Promenade  Wart.  Indeed, 
in  seeking  the  Schiller  House  in  Gohlis,  I  was 
directed  ''hergauf  (literally,  "up  the  mountain") 
along  a  road  where  the  rain-water  was  standing  in 
pools.  The  site  of  St.  Matthew's  is  more  remark- 
able than  its  architecture,  for  the  church  is  based  on 
the  ruins  of  Leipsic's  first  citadel,  and  looks  over 
across  the  Pleisse  to  little  Naundorfchen,  which  was 
a  swampy  fishing  hamlet  of  Wends  when  the  first 
Teutonic  pioneers  wandered  here. 

A  Nuremberg  astrologer  once  found,  on  consult- 
ing the  stars,  that  the  Germans  discovered  Leipsic 
on  Sunday,  April  16,  541  a.d.,  at  9.41  a.m.;  but  the 
less  exact  historians  agree  in  dating  this  event  about 
the  year  700. 

As  in  so  many  German  towns,  the  Promenade- 
Ring  encircles  the  original  city,  converting  the 
ancient  wall  and  ditch  into  a  girdle  of  turf  and 
foliage.  In  the  Historical  Museum  are  some  mel- 
low, enameled  tiles  with  curious  reliefs  which  dec- 
orated the  medieval  rampart.     Such  a  transforma- 

246 


LEIPSIC 

tion  symbolizes  the  unmilitary  spirit  of  this  place  of 
commerce  and  music.  Although  Leipsic  is  called 
"The  Battle-field  of  the  Nations"  and  a  huge  monu- 
ment is  being  built  outside  the  city  to  commemorate 
the  bloody  victory  over  Napoleon  in  1813,  war  talk 
is  not  considered  good  form.  Soldiers  are  seldom 
seen  in  public,  and  the  officer  hastens  into  civilian 
garb  as  soon  as  he  may.  Here  the  music-pen  has 
always  been  mightier  than  the  sword,  and  the  Saxons 
are  as  proud  of  their  Church  of  St.  Thomas  as  the 
Prussians  are  of  their  "Lion  Monument"  to  Wil- 
liam I.  For  this  plain  Gothic  church  might  almost 
be  called  the  cradle  of  modern  music.  From  1723 
nntil  his  death  in  1750  Bach  was  its  cantor  and  com- 
posed many  of  his  greatest  works  for  its  services. 
He  was  director  as  well  of  the  school  for  choristers, 
and  even  to-day  it  is  an  event  to  hear  the  boys  of  the 
Thomas  School  sing  their  Saturday  motet  in  the  old 
church. 

Bach  needed  all  of  his  creative  power,  for  when  he 
came,  the  musical  resources  of  Leipsic  consisted  of 
four  town  pipers  and  three  "art-fiddlers" — called 
"Kunst  Geiger,"  to  distinguish  them  from  the  or- 
dinary musician.  The  town  pipers  drew  a  muni- 
cipal salary,  and  their  oath  of  office  made  curious 
reading.  They  swore  to  pipe  for  all  church  services, 
to  sound  the  hours  from  the  Rathaus  tower,  and  to 

249 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

provide  the  music  for  weddings  and  other  festivities 
in  the  Rathaus  "with  patience  and  without  extor- 
tion." They  swore  not  to  bemean  their  art  by  piping 
wantonly  in  the  street  nor  to  sleep  out  of  town  with- 
out the  permission  of  the  mayor. 

When  Bach  came,  he  complained  to  the  authori- 
ties in  an  amusing  letter  that  of  the  four  town  pipers 
one  blew  the  hautboy,  two  the  trumpet,  and  the 
fourth  did  not  blow  at  all  ("gar  nicht  blast"),  but 
fiddled  first  violin.  Of  the  three  "art-fiddlers"  sup- 
ported by  the  church,  one  fiddled  second  violin.  Two, 
on  the  other  hand,  fiddled  not  at  all,  but  blew  sec- 
ond hautboy — and  bassoon.  ("Die  beiden  wie- 
derum  gar  nicht  geigen  sondern  blasen.  .  .  .") 

Out  of  this  chaos  the  master  built  the  Gewand- 
haus  Orchestra,  which,  in  1743,  gave  its  first  concert 
in  the  old  Gewandhaus,  or  Hall  of  the  Foreign  Cloth 
Merchants.  In  1835  young  Felix  Mendelssohn 
took  uj)  the  baton  and  taught  all  Germany  to  love 
Bach,  Handel,  Beethoven,  and  Schubert.  He  en- 
couraged struggling  geniuses  like  Schumann  and 
Gade  by  playing  their  works,  and  his  efforts  cre- 
ated the  famous  Leipsic  Conservatory  in  1843. 
To-day  these  concerts  are  given  in  the  new  Gewand- 
haus under  the  direction  of  Arthur  Nikisch,  one  of 
the  foremost  of  living  conductors. 

From  every  part  of  the  city  a  round  tower  of  gray 

250 


LEIPSIC 

stone  is  seen,  now  through  a  lane  of  old  gables,  or 
down  a  stretch  of  Ring,  now  backing  the  f a9ades  of 
one  of  the  numerous  squares— a  mighty,  rugged 
thing  dominating  the  city,  like  an  all-seeing  guardian 
of  the  public  weal.  It  is  the  tower  of  the  Pleissen- 
burg,  the  city's  medieval  citadel.  The  Pleissenburg 
was  wrecked  by  the  wars  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
but  the  old  tower  with  a  fresh  top  became  the  nucleus 
of  the  New  Rathaus,  the  finest  modern  building  in 
Leipsic,  and  quite  worthy  of  its  site.  The  great 
Renaissance  fa9ades  are  built  of  the  French  coquina 
with  which  IMessel  has  beautified  Berlin,  and,  new 
as  the  building  is,  parts  of  its  masonry  look  as  though 
they  had  weathered  the  ages  and  frowned  down  upon 
"the  drums  and  tramplings  of  three  conquests." 
Two  lions  of  a  fairly  Grecian  majesty  ramp  at  the 
portal,  the  one  clutching  a  serpent,  the  other  throt- 
tling a  limp  dragon.  But  they  perform  these  func- 
tions like  duties,  and  with  no  vulgar,  military  zest. 
"Who  could  bear  to  imagine  our  city,"  writes 
Wustmann,  a  historian  of  twenty  years  ago,  "with- 
out the  portly  tower  of  .its  Pleissenburg  and  the  im- 
memorial gray  of  its  gable-crowned  Rathaus?" 
Since  then,  alas!  both  have  been  severely  "improved." 
The  Old  Rathaus  has  been  taken  apart  and  put 
together  again,  its  crown  of  gables  emerging  spick 
and  span  from  out  their  immemorial  gray ;  while  the 

251 


RO]\IANTIC  GERMANY 

portly  neck  of  the  Pleissenburg  has  received  a  new 
body  and  a  neat  copper  head. 

Across  the  river  Pleisse,  offsetting  the  spirited 
walls  of  the  New  Rathaus,  rises  the  Reichsgericht, 
the  Supreme  Court  of  the  Empire,  a  cool,  dignified, 
poiseful  structure,  a  judicial  and  monumental  count- 
erpart of  the  new  Gewandhaus,  the  University 
Library,  the  School  of  Arts  and  Crafts,  and  the 
Conservatory,  which  are  all  huddled  together  in  the 
"concert  quarter."  But  for  a  tradesman-like  econ- 
omy of  space  these  buildings  might  have  been  com- 
posed into  an  effective  scheme.  One  is  thankful, 
however,  that  this  economy  saved  the  Supreme 
Court  from  being  overloaded  with  ornament  in  the 
Northern  style. 

Leipsic  is  no  town  of  the  nouveau  riche.  There  is 
nothing  tawdry  about  it;  and  mingled  with  its 
homely  intimacy  is  that  air  of  elegance  and  good 
taste  to  be  found  only  among  folk  of  breeding.  The 
proverbial  Saxon  cunning  which  one  misses  in  Dres- 
den is  in  evidence  here  among  the  lower  classes.  In 
their  lack  of  any  striking  local  characteristics  these 
Leipsickers  symbolize  their  central  position  in  the 
heart  of  the  land.  And  just  as  Luther  made  the 
standard  speech  of  Germany  out  of  their  official 
language,  so  they  have  made  themselves  types  of  the 
average  German.     The  Leipsicker  has  known  how 

252 


LEIPSIC 

to  fuse  Hessian  traits  with  those  of  Wiirtemberg, 
Prussian  with  Bavarian,  simphcity  with  the  love  of 
elegance,  business  with  music  and  poetry  and 
scholarship.  His  generous  instinct  for  the  common 
municipal  good  has  made  him  a  loyal  son  of  the 
Empire.  He  is  not  so  much  a  Saxon  as  a  German. 
"There  is  no  other  great  city  in  the  land,"  writes 
August  Sach,  "that  more  fully  represents  real  Ger- 
manism in  its  universality." 

True,  Leipsic  has  produced  such  extraordinary 
men  as  Leibnitz  and  Wagner,  and  attracted  to  itself 
Bach,  Schumann,  Mendelssohn,  Hiller,  Goethe, 
Schiller,  and  Gellert.  Yet  the  Leipsicker  is  an  ex- 
tremely normal  type,  and  normal  types  seldom  fail 
to  be  colorless.  The  folk  have  no  great  savoir-faire 
and  are  scarcely  more  charming  than  the  sharp, 
witty,  omniscient  people  of  Berlin.  But,  unlike  the 
Berliners,  they  do  not  outrage  the  foreign  breast, 
for  they  are  not  malicious.  They  are  simply  color- 
less, like  a  sensible  merchant  who  has  failed  to  make 
a  sale.  On  the  whole  a  sturdy  German  conscience 
makes  their  deeds  better  than  their  words.  Ask  for 
a  direction  on  the  street,  and  the  Leipsicker  will 
answer  indifferently,  looking  the  other  way.  But 
five  minutes  later,  when  you  have  forgotten  him,  he 
will  surprise  you  from  the  rear  with  another  direc- 
tion.    In  this  ungracious  way  he  will  shadow  you 

253 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

through  the  town  with  the  best  will  in  the  world. 
But  it  is  advisable  not  to  change  your  mind,  for  he 
will  see  that  you  arrive  at  the  place  of  first  aspira- 
tion, though  it  take*  the  afternoon  and  the  police. 

Characteristics  so  negative  as  the  Leipsicker's  may 
perhaps  throw  light  on  his  love  of  music,  an  art 
which  returns  its  devotees  more  spiritual  stimulus 
than  any  other  for  a  given  imaginative  effort. 

Through  its  Messen,  or  fairs,  Leipsic  has  become 
one  of  the  most  important  business  centers  of  Ger- 
many. Here  crossed  the  two  important  old  trade 
routes  between  Poland  and  Thuringia,  and  between 
Bohemia  and  North  Germany.  From  Otto  the 
Rich,  Margrave  of  Meissen,  the  town  obtained  a 
monopoly  of  fairs,  which  was  largely  extended  in 
1497  by  the  Emperor  Maximilian.  These  fairs 
grew  rapidly,  and  came  to  be  the  largest  functions 
of  their  kind  in  Europe.  Spring  and  autumn  the 
booth-filled  squares  were  crowded  with  the  costumes 
and  clamorous  with  the  tongues  of  all  nations.  Even 
since  the  advent  of  the  railway  era,  the  spring  and 
autumn  fairs  have  remained  important  for  the  trade 
in  furs,  toys,  and  the  other  goods  which  must  be  seen 
before  being  bought.  But  in  1906  the  booths  were 
banished  outside  the  Frankfort  Gate,  and  now  the 
fair- time  interest  centers  in  the  Grimm  aische-  and 
Peters- Strassen  and  the  Neumarkt.     Here  the  5000 

254 


THE  NEW  RATHAfS  FROM  THE  PROMEXADE-RIXG 


LEIPSIC 

wholesale  merchants  have  their  headquarters.  The 
houses  flame  with  posters,  and  the  merchants  per- 
form a  sort  of  college-boy  parade  through  the 
streets,  clothed  as  for  a  masquerade  ball  and  howling 
their  wares  to  the  accompaniment  of  every  unmusical 
instrument  known  in  the  musician's  purgatory.  "A 
heathen  scandal  is  that!"  confided  an  old  Leipsicker 
to  me. 

Even  more  important  than  the  fair  is  the  book- 
trade,  for  since  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century 
Leipsic  has  been  the  publishing  center  of  Germany. 
There  are  almost  1000  local  publishers  and  dealers 
in  printed  matter;  there  are  190  printers;  and  at 
Jubilate  11,475  book  dealers  are  represented  in  the 
handsome  building  of  the  Book  Exchange. 

This  tremendous  trade  is  due  in  part  to  the  au- 
thority of  the  500-year-old  University  on  the  Augus- 
tus-Platz.  The  venerable  home  of  this  institution 
was  recently  destroyed  in  a  "restoration" ;  though  in 
its  chapel  there  remain  some  noteworthy  statues,  and 
a  precious  Gothic  portrait  of  Dietzmann,  the  ISIar- 
grave  of  INIeissen  who,  in  1307,  was  assassinated  in 
St.  Thomas's. 

The  museum  opposite  is  famous  as  the  home  of 
Max  Klinger's  Beethoven,  the  greatest  achievement 
of  recent  German  sculpture.  Besides  the  Cranachs, 
a  Rembrandt,  and  a  fresco  from  Orvieto,  there  is 

12  257 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

little  old  art  of  interest.  The  gallery  owns  the 
original  cartoons  of  Preller's  Odyssey  cycle  in 
Weimar,  and  Uhde's  tenderest  work,  "Suffer  Little 
Children."  There  is  Hartmann's  whimsical  bust  of 
Schumann,  and  Kolbe's  of  Bach,  both  made  for 
Leipsic's  memorable  music-room  at  the  St.  Louis 
Exposition.  And  there  are  Klinger's  early  experi- 
ments in  colored  marble — the  Salome,  the  Cassan- 
dra, and  the  Bathing  Girl.  But  the  one  part  of 
indoor  Leipsic  that  lives  most  vividly  in  my  memory 
is  the  room  where  the  pallid  spirit  of  Beethoven 
dreams  forever  on  a  throne  of  blue  and  bronze  and 
ivory. 

Out  of  doors  the  most  attractive  part  of  town  to 
me  is  Naundorfchen.  There  is  something  of  Venice 
and  Amsterdam  and  old  Hamburg  in  the  way  it 
nestles  down  to  the  curving,  canal-like  river,  with 
its  charming,  nondescript  houses  on  piles.  Back 
from  the  tiny  cottages  on  the  tiny  river,  with  their 
glamourous  windows,  whence  old  men  fish  the  live- 
long day,  and  with  their  blooming,  unordered  gar- 
dens full  of  romping  children,  the  roofs  swing  tier 
on  tier  in  a  hundred  gracious  curves,  with  a  lilt  and 
an  Old- World  grace  that  recall  the  roofs  of  Nurem- 
berg. A  ramshackle  skiff  floating  below  Naundorf- 
chen— that  is  the  place  to  rid  one's  feet  of  the  last 
grain  of  modern,  metropolitan  dust — that  is  the  place 

258 


ox  THE  PLEISSE  IN  THE  NArXDuRFCHEX  QUARTER 


LEIPSIC 

to  ruminate  the  strange  history  of  Doctor  Faustus, 
or  to  discover  in  some  black-letter  book  a  lyric  such  as 
this  by  the  dusty  poet  Golmeyer : 

Leipzic  die  fiirnehm  Handels  Statt, 
ein  Windisch  Volk  erbawet  hat, 
welchs  man  Soraben  hat  genandt 
das  weit  und  breit  worden  bekandt. 
Es  war  zwar  Liptz  ihr  erster  Nam, 
den  sie  vom  Lindenbusch  bekam, 
so  in  der  Gegend  g'standen  ist, 
wie  man  hiervon  g'schrieben  list. 

(Leipsic,  the  stately  town  of  trade, 
Was  by  a  Wendish  people  made, 
A  people  that  were  Sorbs  yclept, 
Whose  fame  about  the  land  hath  crept. 
Liptz  was  indeed  its  earliest  name. 
Which  from  a  wood  of  lindens  came 
That  stood  in  the  vicinity, 
As  all  the  scribes  of  old  agree.) 


261 


VIII 
MEISSEN 

HERE  were  roses  as  large  as  hollyhocks 
in  the  station  garden  at  Meissen,  and  the 
fragrance  of  new-mown  hay  filled  the  air. 
We  were  warmly  greeted  by  the  ticket- 
taker,  a  gentle  spirit  with  beautiful  eyes, 
who  kindly  carried  our  bags  to  the  hotel  above  the 
Elbe. 

We  strolled  down  to  a  shore  vaguely  littered  with 
boats,  fishing-nets,  and  rude  carts — a  strange  shore 
lying  pallid  in  the  last  light  of  day.  High  on  the 
opposite  ridge  a  spirelet,  like  a  wren's  upturned 
beak,  was  silhouetted  against  the  south.  Colin  rose 
sheer  and  mysterious  above  the  backward  crags,  fall- 
ing away  with  a  quaint  effect  toward  where,  far  dis- 
tant, a  windmill  on  the  sky-line  beckoned  Dresden 
with  fantastic  fingers,  while  the  crimson  lights  of  the 
Old  Bridge  swam  in  a  shimmer  of  water  that  Thau- 
low  might  have  painted. 

262 


MEISSEN 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  the  town  reached 
up  in  a  lovely  line  to  the  pile  of  the  Albrechtsburg, 
looming  gigantic  in  the  dusk,  its  cathedral  towers 
swathed  in  a  scaffolding  exquisitely  etched  against 
the  faint  robin's-egg  blue  of  the  sky. 

As  I  gazed,  uncouth  figures  slouched  past;  and 
by  the  glow  of  a  pijje  I  recognized  on  the  Old  Bridge 
one  of  those  mysterious  Low-Country  faces  which 
Rembrandt  loved.  Boats  with  red  and  golden  eyes 
slipped  beneath  us,  towing  strings  of  serpent-like 
barges;  and  down  the  black  lane  at  the  bridge-end 
a  light  flickered  in  a  noble  tower,  rounding  a  vision 
that  belonged  less  to  Germany  than  to  such  lands 
of  delight  as  children  explore  on  the  hearth-rug 
before  falling  embers. 

As  the  west  blackened  and  lights  spread  through 
the  town,  my  friend  the  artist  came  slowly  out  of  his 
trance.  "When  I  first  caught  sight  of  this,"  he  mur- 
mured in  his  rich  Austrian  dialect,  "it  was  as  though 
a  great  painter  had  spread  before  me  a  masterjDiece, 
saying,  'Na,  hist  zufrieden?'  ['Well,  art  content?'] 
I  shall  no  more  forget  it  than  the  moment  when  I 
first  saw  the  sea,  and  would  have  leaped  to  it  through 
my  window!" 

Under  the  sky  of  early  morning,  dainty  with 
small,  tenderly  tinted  clouds,  Meissen  became  really 
German.     Below  the  Burg  the  tiles  came  oiit  in  a 

263 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

glow  of  rare  mellowness.  Though  the  atmosphere 
was  as  soft  as  that  of  rural  England,  the  Elbe  dis- 
engaged the  ozone,  the  bracing  salt  smell  of  the  sea 
down  beyond  Hamburg.  Behind  the  carts,  the 
junk,  the  weedy,  net-littered  stones  of  the  opposite 
quay,  squatted  buildings  that  bore  in  their  foreheads 
windows  like  great  eyes  peeping  through  the  tiles 
under  an  arch  of  frowning  brow.  "Ox-eyes"  the 
people  call  them. 

Every  house  was  bright  with  flowers,  and  every 
woman  carried  at  least  one  blossom  in  her  market- 
basket.  A  maid  in  a  short,  gay  petticoat  was  sing- 
ing a  folk-song  as  she  brushed  her  dooryard  with  a 
bundle  of  twigs.  A  genial  crone  went  by  bare- 
legged, harnessed  with  a  dog  to  a  cart  full  of  fas- 
cinating earthenware,  her  silvery  head-dress  drawn 
tight  over  her  silvery  head — a  sight  to  move  a  very 
sign-painter.  In  a  stable  door  by  the  waterside  sat 
a  tiny  maid,  with  flying  curls,  crooning  a  song  to  two 
baby  goats  in  white  and  brown  that  were  enthusias- 
tically eating  oats  out  of  her  lap.  "I  am  'Lisbeth," 
she  answered  me,  "and  these" — patting  her  bearded 
friends— "are  Fritz  and  Hans." 

With  a  sudden  expansion  of  the  heart  I  realized 
that  I  had  entered  the  brighter  atmosphere  of  a  wine 
country,  and  that  this  was  a  foretaste  of  the  dear, 
kindly  South-German  land. 

264. 


MEISSEN 

Meissen  is  a  town  of  crooked  streets  that  wind  about 
delightfully  in  its  depths,  and  suddenly  climb  the 
heights  on  each  hand — a  town  with  a  fresh  surprise 
of  architecture,  of  costume,  or  of  landscape  at  every 
turn.  One  is  constantly  finding  some  landing 
whence  ancient  walled  steps  shoot  up  on  the  one 
hand  to  the  Burg,  and  down  on  the  other  hand  to  the 
river. 

I  climbed  the  ''Ascent  of  Souls"  beside  an  ivied 
wall  weathered  all  colors.  Where  the  corner  of  a 
house  jutted  out  informally  above  the  passers-by 
was  an  intimate  view  of  the  Town  Church  belfry, 
which  had  crowned  the  previous  evening's  pleasure. 
Past  the  Princes'  School,  where  Gellert  and  Lessing 
once  studied,  the  way  led  to  the  fourteenth-century 
Church  of  St.  Afra,  the  Cyprian  princess  martyred 
at  Augsburg  by  Diocletian  in  the  year  303,  whose 
soul  flew  to  heaven  a  white  dove,  leaving  her  body 
unharmed  by  the  flames.  The  chroniclers  say  that 
Dante  taught  in  the  cloister-school  in  1307. 

Through  a  tower-gate  and  by  the  fine,  Roman- 
esque portal  of  the  Wascliliof,  I  passed  from  the 
Afra  JNIountain  over  a  medieval  viaduct  to  the  Castle 
Mountain,  regions  both  formerly  independent  of 
Meissen  law,  and  called  "Freedom"  to  this  day. 

IMassive,  august,  the  Albrechtsburg,  with  its  out- 
buildings, spreads  protecting  arms  about  the  thir- 

267 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

teenth-century  cathedral,  the  richest  and  most  beau- 
tiful of  the  churches  of  Saxony.  There,  in  the 
Princes'  Chapel,  before  the  western  facade,  beneath 
the  bronzes  of  Peter  Vischer,  lie  the  Saxon  rulers  of 
the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  on  whom  look 
down  primitive  statues  of  the  Magi  and  the  crowd  of 
Gothic  saints  and  angels  on  the  main  portal. 

The  church  windows  are  of  Putzensclieiben,  the 
same  small,  round  panes  with  a  bubble  of  glass  in  the 
center  which  gave  Rembrandt  his  iridescent  gloom; 
but  in  the  choir  still  glows  stained  glass  of  the  four- 
teenth century. 

The  pavement  is  covered  with  gravestones  and 
brazen  slabs.  Here  is  the  resting-place  of  Dr.  Johann 
Hofmann,  who,  after  quarreling  with  John  Huss, 
seceded  from  Prague  with  a  throng  of  German  pro- 
fessors and  students  to  found  Leipsic  University. 
Here  is  the  grave  of  Dr.  Giinther,  who  was  killed  by 
the  same  bolt  that  shattered  the  steeples  in  April, 
1547;  and  here,  until  the  Reformation,  was  the  tomb 
of  Benno,  the  saint  who,  according  to  report,  worked 
miracles  while  alive,  and  whose  bones  healed  the  sick 
more  than  four  hundred  years  after  his  death. 

Before  the  high  altar  lies  Margrave  William  the 
One-eyed  under  a  slab  showing  where  the  bronze 
plate  was  torn  away  by  the  Swedes  of  Gustavus 
Adolphus.  Legend  says  that  this  William  oppressed 

268 


MEISSEN 

the  clergy  who  prayed  to  the  holy  Benno.  Benno 
warned  William  in  a  vision,  much  to  the  Margrave's 
amusement;  but  at  his  second  appearance  the  saint 
burned  out  one  of  William's  eyes  with  a  torch. 
Whereupon  the  Margrave  saw  that  it  had  been  no 
dream,  and  made  fourfold  restitution. 

The  cathedral  is  famous  for  the  variety  of  its  orna- 
mentation, and  no  two  of  its  five  hundred  capitals 
bear  the  same  foliage.  Near  the  high  altar  is  an  ex- 
quisite Gothic  tabernacle,  and  near  by,  over  the 
sacristy  door,  are  statues  of  Emperor  Otto  I,  who 
built  the  original  cathedral  in  965,  and  of  his  smiling 
wife  Adelheid,  both  masterpieces  of  thirteenth-cen- 
tury sculpture. 

The  vaulting  of  the  sacristy  is  carried,  as  in  Auer- 
bach's  Keller,  by  a  single  pillar.  And  there,  through 
the  small,  rusty-barred,  ivy-smothered  windows  of 
PutzenscJieihen,  I  caught  a  glimpse,  across  the  Elbe, 
of  red  crags  and  green  meadows,  and  my  friend  the 
windmill  still  spinning  eagerly  on  the  sky-line.  With 
a  right  good  will  my  pfennigs  dropped  into  a  box 
marked  "For  the  Heathen,"  poor  people  who  could 
not  see  such  things. 

A  trap-door  uncovered  steps  leading  to  a  similar 
room  underneath,  from  which  more  steps  plunged  to 
a  still  gloomier  chamber  in  the  bowels  of  the  hill,  both 
dating  from  Otto's  tenth-century  church. 

269 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

I  was  glad  to  come  out  again  into  the  nave,  where 
a  young  bird  was  flying  about  contentedly  between 
the  slender  piers  under  the  groined  branches  of  the 
vaulting.  It  disappeared  through  a  transept.  I  fol- 
lowed, and  came  out  into  a  little  cloister,  the  key-note 
of  the  whole  cathedral  concord.  Massive,  uncloister- 
like,  ivy-draped  piers  inclosed  with  lovely  pointed 
arches  a  square  full  of  ferns  and  foliage,  a  fitting 
place  to  ruminate  the  day's  experience  and  to  enjoy 
the  steeple  above  the  choir. 

The  Albrechtsburg,  one  of  the  finest  of  fifteenth- 
century  castles,  is  the  successor  of  a  stronghold  built 
in  928  by  Henry  I  in  the  long  German  struggle 
against  the  Slavic  inhabitants  of  the  mark  of  Meis- 
sen. It  was  begun  in  1471  by  the  noted  architect 
Arnold  of  Westphalia,  and  until  the  court  was  trans- 
ferred to  Dresden  was  the  residence  of  the  Saxon 
princes.  After  that  it  long  lay  neglected ;  then  for  a 
century  and  a  half  it  suffered  the  indignity  of  serv- 
ing as  the  royal  porcelain  factory.  In  1881  it  was 
restored  and  over-decorated,  so  that  the  exterior  is 
more  noteworthy  than  the  long  line  of  nobly  vaulted 
and  gaily  frescoed  halls  which  strangers  visit.  The 
glory  of  the  Burg  is  its  stair-tower,  with  wide  Gothic 
arches  framing  the  spiral  stair  inside.  It  is  covered 
with  convivial  reliefs,  taken,  according  to  the  guide, 
"from  the  profane  life."     They  are  of  the  same 

270 


ASCKNT  TO  THE   AI.BRECHTSBIRG 


MEISSEN 

period  as  those  on  the  famous  Rathaus  in  Breslau, 
and  aknost  as  grossly  humorous. 

I  like  to  think  that  from  this  fair  Castle  Moun- 
tain Christianity  and  culture  spread  in  waves  through 
central  Germany,  and  that  it  was  the  base  for  the 
great  military  expeditions  by  which  the  hero  Al- 
brecht  helped  to  lay  for  Saxony  the  foundations  of 
national  unity. 

The  porcelain  factory  in  the  Triebisch-Thal,  in- 
teresting as  it  is,  has  quite  unjustly  monopolized  the 
fame  of  Meissen.  And  a  glimpse  of  the  Burg  from 
the  riverside,  a  ramble  up  the  Ascent  of  Souls,  or  a 
moment  in  the  cloister  of  the  cathedral,  is  far  to  be 
preferred  to  a  whole  Triebisch-Thal  full  of  Meissen 
services  and  rococo  figurines. 


273 


IX 

DRESDEN-THE  FLORENCE 
OF  THE  ELBE 

,N  Dresden  I  began  to  realize  that  the 
charm  of  Leipsic  lay  in  the  quaint  atmos- 
phere of  its  old  buildings,  among  which 
even  trade  had  grown  romantic,  in  the  airi- 
ness of  the  many  squares,  in  a  village-like 
flavor  of  homely  intimacy  caught  amid  the  modern 
prose  of  a  commercial  city.  Meissen  had  been  some- 
thing beyond  experience,  a  dream  of  strange  beauty. 
But  in  Dresden  I  found  a  beauty  very  real  and  tan- 
gible, directly  arousing,  without  complicated  equip- 
ments of  antiquity,  the  instant  response  of  the  plea- 
sure-loving human  heart,  like  a  voluptuous  melody 
on  the  cello. 

My  eighteenth-century  lodgings  in  Jews'  Court 
gave  upon  the  New  Market,  where  petty  trades- 
people from  every  part  of  central  Germany  were 
preparing  for  one  of  Dresden's  characteristic  Jahr- 
mdrkte,  or  fairs,  which  take  place  three  times  in  the 

274 


DRESDEN 

year.  Every  one  was  building  himself  a  rude  wooden 
booth,  as  for  some  Christian  Feast  of  Tabernacles, 
while  the  porcelain  merchants  about  the  Church  of 
Our  Lady  were  unpacking  acres  of  coarse  pottery 
and  Meissen  figurines. 

A  lane  of  Dresden's  fast-vanishing  old  houses  led 
toward  the  river,  and  I  turned  on  the  steps  of  the 
Briihl  Terrace  to  see  how  exquisitely  the  roofs 
curved  upward  toward  where  the  somber  mass  of  the 
Church  of  Our  Lady,  a  church  modeled  after  the 
Roman  St.  Peter's,  dominated  the  city,  the  porce- 
lain market  surging  white  as  foam  about  its  crag-like 
base. 

From  the  half -night  of  that  lane  I  emerged  upon 
a  memorable  scene.  Far  and  wide,  beneath,  the 
Elbe  poured  between  its  bridges.  Some  boats  had 
just  landed  thousands  of  young  children,  who,  re- 
turning radiant  from  their  holiday  in  Saxon  Switzer- 
land, swarmed  in  a  riot  of  color  about  the  candy  wo- 
men on  the  waterside  below,  each  with  a  yellow  ticket 
strung  about  his  or  her  neck. 

A  segment  of  delicate  pink  sun  drifted  low  beside 
the  opera-house,  sending  through  the  hoary  arches 
of  the  Augustus  Bridge  a  fainter  film  of  rose  to  rest 
on  the  river  surface.  Haze-colored  smoke  floated 
from  steamers  made  fast  to  the  shore,  bedimming 
the  JVIuseum's  flat  dome,  the  tower  of  the  Court 

275 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Church,  and  the  piquant  spire  of  the  castle,  toning 
its  vivid  patina  down  to  the  faint  fawn  color  of  the 
eastward  waters,  and  mercifully  veiling  the  Landes- 
rat  and  the  opera-house,  the  bronze  tigers  of  which 
frisked  before  a  mass  of  masonry  impressive  in  the 
dusk.  With  the  waning  of  day,  the  ripples  before 
the  old  bridge  turned  imperceptibly  to  liquid  bronze, 
as  light  as  the  western  heavens,  lighter  for  the  dark 
masses  of  stone  behind;  while  to  the  eastward,  sky 
and  water,  both  a  deepening  fawn,  brought  out  the 
gay  colors  of  the  river  traffic  and  the  rainbow  of 
costumes  along  the  shore. 

Following  an  old  custom,  I  dined  at  the  Belve- 
dere, where  an  orchestra  that  might  be  the  pride  of 
any  city  was  playing  Wagner  to  an  audience  whose 
very  forks  were  dumb  during  the  music.  The  acous- 
tics were  perfect ;  the  hall  was  a  gem  in  simple  white 
and  gold,  and  I  shall  not  forget  the  pleasure  of  look- 
ing over  those  happy,  cultivated  faces  to  where, 
through  the  colonnade,  the  evening  haze  was  deepen- 
ing to  an  intense  blue  upon  the  river  and  the  distant 
heights  of  Loschwitz. 

The  moon  was  up  over  the  Academy  of  Art  as  I 
left,  and  the  benches  under  the  trees  of  the  terrace 
outside  were  filled  with  people  raptly  enjoying,  with 
the  faint  music,  the  splashes  of  watery  light  reflected 
from  the  lamps  of  the  other  shore,  the  murmur  of 

276 


L 


CHURCH  OH  OUR  I.ADV  )K()M  TlUi  BKUHl,  TEKRACK 


DRESDEN 

the  running  river,  and  the  soft  siDiouette  of  Dres- 
den's noble  bridges  and  towers. 

Watchmen  were  prowling  about  the  porcelain 
acres  by  the  Church  of  Our  Lady,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
heaven  had  rained  upon  that  favored  spot  a  double 
portion  of  straw  and  sacking.  The  very  booths  of 
the  market-place,  drenched  in  moonlight,  were 
touched  with  mystery  and  a  kind  of  grotesque 
beauty. 

Dresden  is  essentially  a  city  of  pleasure — of  fair, 
wide  prospects,  of  hearty  river  life,  of  zest  in  nature 
and  art.  Even  the  public  buildings  cluster  about  the 
Elbe,  much  as  the  huts  of  the  first  settlers  clustered. 

A  circle  of  Wendish  herdsmen's  huts  on  the  right 
bank,  a  line  of  fisher-shanties  on  the  left — these  were 
the  unlikely  beginnings  of  Dresden  in  the  sixth  cen- 
tury. But  the  settlement  lay  at  the  only  point  in 
the  river  valley  where  a  ford  was  practicable,  tempt- 
ing the  Germans  to  settle  on  the  left  bank  between 
the  Wends  and  the  swamps,  ovSeen,  unlovely  places 
that  have  long  since  disappeared,  leaving  behind 
only  the  names  See-Strasse,  Am  See,  and  Seevor- 
stadt.  Indeed,  the  very  name  of  Dresden  is  derived 
from  the  Slavic  dresjan,  which  means  "dwellers  in 
the  swamp-forest." 

We  know  that  the  Church  of  Our  Lady  was  built 

279 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

in  the  eleventh  century,  that  until  the  twelfth  the 
right  and  left  banks  of  the  stream  were  called  re- 
spectively "heathen"  and  "Christian,"  that  Dresden 
was  first  mentioned  as  a  city  in  1216,  and  that  the 
original  bridge  was  built  in  1222.  The  market-place 
in  the  New  Town  across  the  river  still  bears  traces  of 
its  original  Wendish  form,  the  Ilundling,  or  circle  of 
huts  facing  an  inner  space  with  only  one  exit,  a 
primitive  device  for  guarding  the  cattle  of  the  com- 
munity at  night. 

It  was  prophetic  of  Dresden's  artistic  destiny  that 
the  first  Margrave  of  Meissen  to  reside  here  (1277— 
88)  should  have  been  Heinrich  der  Erlauchte,  who 
was  mentioned  as  a  fellow-Minnesinger  by  Tann- 
hauser  and  by  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide.  Hein- 
rich married  an  Austrian  princess,  who  brought  to 
Dresden  a  piece  of  the  true  cross.  For  this  a  chapel 
was  added  to  the  Church  of  St.  Nicholas,  where  it 
was  exhibited,  together  with  another  cross  that  came 
swimming  miraculously  down  the  Elbe;  and  these 
drew  such  a  throng  of  liberal  pilgrims  that  St.  Nich- 
olas's was  rebuilt  as  the  Church  of  the  Cross  and  the 
old  wooden  bridge  turned  into  one  of  stone  in  1319. 
It  is  curious  to  know  that  this  church  and  the  Augus- 
tus Bridge  are  still  under  one  financial  management. 

During  four  troubled  centuries  unwarlike  Dresden 
suffered  much,  and  did  not  become  important  until 

280 


I'ORCII.AIN   I'AIK  IN  THK  NI'W  MAKKliT,  TIIH  CHURCH  Oh  OUR  LADY  ON  THh  l.hl-T 


DRESDEN 

the  reign  of  Frederick  Augustus  the  Strong  (1694- 
1733)— "August  the  Physically  Strong,"  as  Carlyle 
loved  to  call  him. 

A  gilt,  rococo  king,  clad  discrepantly  in  a  wig  and 
toga,  he  strides  a  gilt  horse  in  the  New  Town  mar- 
ket-place, a  weak  variant  of  Berlin's  monument  to 
the  Great  Elector,  facing,  with  a  faint  grin,  his  king- 
dom of  Poland,  for  which  he  turned  Roman  Catho- 
lic. Resembling  Louis  XIV  in  feature,  he  strove  to 
resemble  him  as  well  in  trying  to  revive  the  golden 
period  of  Roman  culture  and  to  combine,  in  the 
Zwinger,  all  the  elegant  and  useful  features  of  Ro- 
man baths  and  palaces. 

The  Zwinger  was  intended  to  unite  immense  ban- 
quet- and  dancing-halls  with  baths,  grottoes,  colon- 
nades, pleasure-walks,  rows  of  trees  and  pillars, 
lawns,  gardens,  waterfalls,  and  playgrounds — a  fit 
place  to  display  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  royal 
domestic  life  in  the  ostentatious  spirit  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  It  was  planned  to  carry  the  Zwin- 
ger down  to  the  river  and  finish  it  with  an  unex- 
ampled palace;  but  Poppelmann,  the  architect,  was 
able  merely  to  build  the  forecourt  before  the  royal 
whim  veered. 

This  fragment,  however,  with  its  seven  pavilions 
and  connecting  galleries,  is  unique  among  buildings 
— "the  most  vivacious  and  fanciful  stone-creation  of 

"  283 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Germany,"  as  Wildburg  declares.  "The  swift  evo- 
lution of  late  baroque,"  he  continues,  "into  the  most 
joyous  and  airy  rococo,  the  wondrous  fusing  of  an 
almost  Indian  imagination  with  German  solidity  and 
Gallic  coquetry,  make  a  gloriously  artistic  whole." 

The  first  impression  made  by  the  Zwinger  on  a 
student  of  history  is  that  "August  the  Physically 
Strong"  must  have  had  in  mind  the  housing  of  his 
famous  three  hundred  and  fifty-four  children,  and 
he  cannot  help  wondering  whether  the  chubby  stone 
infants  that  cluster  on  each  pavilion  can  be  family 
portraits.  The  various  deities  scattered  among  these 
riotous  princes  seem  frankly  amused  at  their  situ- 
ation. Here  is  a  sincerer  sportiveness,  a  less  manu- 
factured gaiety,  than  I  remember  in  any  other 
rococo.  This  joyful  and  frivolous  ornamentation 
was  destined  to  become  the  classical  example  of  its 
school,  and  until  to-day  to  mold  the  style  of  the 
Meissen  porcelain,  invented  in  Dresden  by  Bottger 
in  1709. 

The  Museum,  built  by  Gottfried  Semper  in  the 
style  of  the  Italian  Renaissance,  connects  the  ends  of 
the  Zwinger.  It  contains  the  finest  gallery  of  paint- 
ings in  Germany,  a  collection  ranking  with  those  of 
the  Louvre,  the  Pitti,  and  the  UfRzi.  It  was  made 
in  great  part  by  August  the  Strong  and  his  son 
August  II,  who  had  shrewd  agents  in  the  Nether- 

284 


DRESDEN 

lands,  France,  and  Italy.  Even  the  Pope  and  the 
King  of  Sicily  did  their  utmost  to  rob  Italy  of  its 
treasures  for  them. 

Their  most  fortunate  find  was  the  Sistine  Ma- 
donna, bought  in  1753  from  the  monks  of  Piacenza 
for  twenty  thousand  ducats  and  a  plausible  copy. 
To  smuggle  the  picture  safely  across  the  frontier, 
the  conspirators  painted  it  over  with  a  wretched 
landscape.  When  the  treasure  arrived,  the  eager 
king  had  it  hung  in  the  throne-room ;  and  seeing  that 
the  best  light  fell  on  the  dais,  he  shoved  the  throne 
aside  with  his  own  hands,  exclaiming,  "Room  for  the 
great  Raphael !" 

Nothing  could  more  vividly  bring  out  the  contrast 
between  esthetic  Dresden  and  militant  Berlin.  And 
this  contrast  was  emphasized  three  years  later  when 
Frederick  the  Great  seized  Dresden,  ransacked  the 
royal  archives,  and  sent  poor  August  II  in  a  panic 
to  the  Konigstein,  leaving  his  queen  behind  to  face 
the  Prussians. 

This  war  ended  the  gallery's  rapid  growth,  but  it 
had  already  become  the  most  noteworthy  collection 
north  of  the  Alps.  As  early  as  1756,  Winckelmann, 
whose  genius  had  been  awakened  by  this  gallery, 
called  Dresden  "the  German  Athens,"  a  name  that 
never  gained  the  popularity  of  Herder's  epithet, 
"the  Florence  of  the  Elbe." 

285 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

On  entering  the  gallery,  one's  first  thought  is  for 
the  great  Raphael.  There  is  a  hypnotic  expression 
in  the  Madonna's  wide  eyes,  which  the  infinite  prom- 
ises of  that  childHood  have  struck  into  trance,  mir- 
roring all  the  possibilities  of  motherhood.  This  in- 
tensity of  vision  is  only  accentuated  by  the  formalism 
of  Santa  Barbara  and  Pope  Sixtus.  With  Raphael's 
ordinary  work  in  my  mind,  I  was  heartily  surprised, 
years  ago,  by  a  first  view  of  the  Sistine  Madonna. 
It  was  much  as  if,  in  a  vision,  I  had  heard  one  of 
a  row  of  simpering  Perugino  saints  burst  forth  into 
a  Brahms  song. 

It  is  a  commentary  on  the  contrast  between  the 
characters  of  northern  and  middle  Germany  that 
the  Dresden  Gallery  is  poor  in  the  early  paintings  of 
historical  interest,  and  rich  in  the  golden  periods — 
an  exact  antithesis  to  Berlin. 

Here  Correggio,  with  his  tenderness  and  his  deep 
backgrounds,  is  even  more  fully  represented  than  at 
Parma.  Here  Paolo  Veronese  may  be  known  best 
— the  gay  Paolo  in  all  his  superficial  glory,  with  his 
joy  in  luscious  brocades  set  off  against  the  gleaming 
of  Palladian  architecture. 

The  canvases  of  Giorgione  are  always  suffused 
with  poetry  and  a  dreamy  music,  but  here  the  hour 
is  immortalized  when  Aphrodite  slept  while  Giorgi- 
one painted.    Myriad-minded  Titian  is  almost  at  his 

286 


DRESDEN 

height  in  "The  Tribute  Money"  and  "The  Marriage 
of  St.  Catherine."  Before  the  exquisite,  miniature 
altarpiece  of  Jan  van  Eyck  one  forgets  its  size,  as 
one  forgets  the  blindness  of  some  great  musician 
when  he  is  playing  his  best.  And  here  hangs  one  of 
the  chief  canvases  of  Van  der  JNIeer,  that  rare  realist 
who  has  but  lately  come  into  his  own. 

Rubens  is  most  characteristic  in  the  mad  "Boar 
Hunt"  and  the  swirhng  and  plunging  of  the  "Quos 
Ego." 

There  is  a  humor  unusual  with  Rembrandt  in 
"Samson's  Riddle";  and  three  of  the  master's  most 
subtle  character  studies  are  "The  Gold- weigher,"  the 
portrait  of  an  old  man,  and  that  of  his  wife  Saskia. 
His  school  is  even  better  represented  here  than  in 
Amsterdam  or  The  Hague. 

It  is  natural  that  the  German  painters  should  be 
weaker  in  Dresden  than  the  Italian  and  Flemish  and 
Dutch;  for  the  artistic  charity  of  the  founder  of  the 
Zwinger  and  the  Court  Church  did  not  begin  at 
home.  Nevertheless,  there  are  a  few  native  master- 
pieces. The  well-known  JNIeyer  JNIadonna  of  Hol- 
bein was  held  for  centuries  as  the  original  until 
chance  discovered  the  present  Darmstadt  picture  in 
the  junk-wagon  of  a  Parisian  peddler.  His  por- 
trait of  the  Sieur  de  Morette  was  long  thought  to  be 
a  Leonardo,  and  that  of  Sir  Thomas  Godsalve  with 

287 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

his  son  is  one  of  the  most  notable  portraits  of  his 
EngHsh  period. 

Though  the  modern  gallery  is  small,  it  is  ex- 
tremely select,  as  befits  the  vicinity.  It  contains  such 
well-known  paintings  as  Menzel's  riotous  "Market- 
place in  Verona,"  Hofmann's  "Christ  in  the  Tem- 
ple," and  the  appealing  "Holy  Night"  by  Von 
Uhde. 

An  old  traveler  once  declared  that  he  preferred  to 
investigate  mountains  from  the  foot,  inns  from  the 
inside,  and  palaces  from  the  outside.  The  wanderer 
in  Germany  soon  learns  this  method,  particularly 
with  palaces;  but  a  visit  to  the  Dresden  castle  is  a 
mildly  amusing  exception  to  the  usual  rule. 

Its  exterior  is  not  forbidding,  like  the  ordinary 
German  palace,  being  enlivened  with  red  tiles,  yellow 
plaster,  and  a  graceful  green  steeple;  with  Renais- 
sance gables  and,  in  the  court,  with  round  stair-towers 
which  recall  the  fact  that  Arnold  of  Westphalia  re- 
built it  at  the  time  when  he  was  creating  the 
Albrechtsburg  at  Meissen. 

The  bedchamber  of  August  the  Strong  is  large, 
and  his  throne-room,  adjoining,  is  hung  with  pic- 
tures of  Leda  and  Aphrodite.  The  rooms  are  not  so 
overladen  with  ornament  as  to  be  unfriendly,  and 
one  can  imagine  people  actually  taking  their  plea- 
sure in  the  festal  hall.    Pictures  are  there,  to  be  sure, 

288 


^    "    ■\W]l^m^ 


■?d 


DRESDEN 

of  the  inevitable  Kaisers,  but  they  look  almost  docile, 
and  are  neutralized  by  such  homely  frescos  as  "Ring 
Around  a  Rosy"  and  "Washing  the  Baby,"  an 
operation  not  unknown  to  those  palace  walls. 

The  Green  Vault  is  a  place  that  contains  earth's 
greatest  display  of  knickknacks,  royal  playthings, 
and  jewels.  There  are  exhibited  an  ivory  frigate  in 
full  sail,  Siamese  Twins  in  ivory,  and  one  hundred 
and  forty-two  fallen  angels  carved  out  of  a  single 
tusk.  In  a  place  of  honor  is  a  dish  with  an  elaborate 
representation  of  the  "Scarlet  Woman."  There  are 
goblets  made  of  ostrich  eggs,  a  silver  beaker  from 
Nuremberg  in  the  form  of  a  young  lady,  and  the 
Bible  of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  One  may  see  vessels 
and  trinkets  made  of  every  stone  mentioned  in  the 
Book  of  Revelation.  A  "perpetual-motion"  clock 
represents  the  Tower  of  Babel,  whereon  perch  eight 
town  pipers  blowing  four  pipes,  three  trombones, 
and  a  waldhorn.  Then  there  are  wonderful  Limoges 
enamels,  the  masterpieces  of  the  old  German  gold- 
smiths, and,  as  a  climax,  the  Saxon  crown  jewels. 

After  so  much  touristry  it  was  natural  to  loll  on 
the  waterside  in  the  quaint  "Italian  Village,"  a  row 
of  houses  once  inhabited  by  the  Italian  workmen 
who  built  the  Court  Church,  now  a  restaurant  and 
rendezvous  for  all  genial  Dresdeners.  There  it  was 
pleasant  to  rest  over  a  stein,  and  watch  the  river 

291 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

seething  by  between  the  magnificent  piers  of  the 
Augustus  Bridge;  to  enjoy  through  half -shut  eyes 
the  ox-eyed  roofs  of  the  New  Town  behind  their 
well-wooded  gardens,  and  the  concave  towers  of  the 
Japanese  House,  which  shelters  the  royal  library. 
Pleasant  also  to  watch  the  divers  opposite  (for  half 
of  Dresden  lives  in  the  water  during  the  hot  months) , 
and  the  party-colored  stream  of  life  above,  pouring 
back  and  forth  over  the  swift  stream. 

Alas!  they  had  already  begun  to  tear  down  the 
venerable  Augustus  Bridge,  the  symbol  of  Dresden 
and  its  finest  monument!  The  small,  picturesque 
arches,  dangerous  to  the  growing  river  traffic,  were 
doomed  to  yield  to  wider  ones,  which,  as  the  author- 
ities promise,  are  to  be  quite  as  picturesque.  But  the 
artists  wonder  how  many  centuries  it  will  take  to  win 
back  the  patina  of  those  piers. 

After  the  sharpness  of  Berlin  and  the  flatness  of 
Leipsic,  Dresden's  humor  is  refreshing.  It  strikes 
a  nice  balance  between  satirical  Berlin  and  soft- 
hearted, gemutlich  Munich. 

There  is  nothing  brutally  downright  about  it:  it 
proceeds  by  indirection.  If  the  Dresdener  wishes 
to  condemn  the  suburb  of  Striessen,  for  instance,  he 
declares  that  the  very  sparrows  take  in  their  legs 
when  flying  over  it.  The  pleasantry  of  the  lower 
classes  is  of  the  mildest. 

292 


DRESDEN 

"In  wliich  street  is  the  goose  cooked  only  on  one 
side?" 

"Don't  know." 

"In  the  Httle  Plaunscher-Gasse,  for  on  the  other 
side  there  are  no  houses." 

In  the  plain  old  Rathaus  there  used  to  be  a  motto 
which  is  still  characteristic  of  this  town  of  friendU- 
ness:  "One  man's  speech,"  runs  the  motto,  "is  a 
good  half-speech.  Hear  the  other  man's  speech, 
too."  The  Dresdener  does  not  interrupt.  He  is  not 
puffed  up,  nor  does  he  imagine  a  vain  thing.  He  is 
almost  as  polite  as  the  Parisian,  with  much  of  the 
Parisian  polish  and  savoir-faire.  He  is  never 
brusque.  A  Berliner  would  call  an  idler  "lazy,"  a 
^liinchener  would  call  him  "ideahstic,"  but  a  real 
Dresdener  would  intimate  that  he  is  "not  quite  in- 
dustrious." Instead  of  "You  're  a  boor,"  he  says, 
"The  honored  sir  appears  hardly  to  realize  that  he  is 
not  conducting  himself  properly."  The  inquiring 
stranger  will  find  liim  an  entertaining  companion 
who  will  gladly  see  him  to  the  suburbs  and  even  ar- 
range for  him,  with  many  apologies,  any  neglected 
item  of  dress. 

The  Dresdener  is  orderly,  modest,  and  quiet  even 
in  his  pleasures.  The  very  policeman  is  not  so  im- 
pressed with  his  position  as  the  ordinary  Prussian 
lackey.    The  Dresdener  is  so  gentle  that  his  very  cats 

293 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

look  altruistic,  and  his  sparrows  will  hop  across  your 
feet  in  any  beer-garden.  He  is  so  amiable  that  I  have 
often  been  tempted  to  withhold  a  tip,  to  see  if  I  could 
draw  as  much  as  a  sigh  from  that  paragon  of  Chris- 
tian virtues,  the  waiter. 

But,  despite  these  qualities,  he  does  not  lack  criti- 
cal sense,  defining,  for  instance,  the  Secession  school 
of  painting  as  "art  which,  if  you  would  be  cultivated, 
you  must  like  at  all  events — whether  you  like  it  or 
not." 

Because  Dresden  has  the  advantages  of  a  large 
city  with  but  few  of  its  drawbacks,  it  is  so  popular 
with  Anglo-Saxons  as  to  have  an  English  and  an 
American  quarter.  It  is  rich  in  painting,  sculpture, 
music,  and  architecture;  has  fine  theaters  and  inter- 
esting personalities;  is  charmingly  situated  and 
within  a  short  ride  of  Saxon  Switzerland,  the  most 
attractive  miniature  mountain  range  in  Germany: 
and  yet  the  individual  still  counts  among  its  half- 
million  people — counts  even  to  the  verge  of  town 
gossip.  Despite  the  size  of  the  city,  neighborliness 
and  sociability  flourish  like  the  roses  of  the  Zwinger; 
and  any  novelty  like  a  horse-race  or  an  Englishman 
in  knickerbockers  lays  hold  of  the  united  civic  imag- 
ination. 

Dresden  combines  the  advantages  of  the  metropo- 
lis with  the  humanity  of  the  village,  and  one  can 

294 


DRESDEN 

easily  forgive  it  for  outdoing  Leipsic  in  credulity, 
servility,  and  greed  for  titles,  and  for  falling  behind 
its  neighbor  in  business  methods. 

The  best  place  to  meet  the  Dresdener  is  on  the 
Briihl  Terrace,  "the  balcony  of  Europe,"  as  it  was 
once  christened  by  an  enthusiast.  Its  daisy-covered 
walls  were  a  part  of  the  fortifications  before  Briilil, 
the  all-powerful  minister  of  August  II,  in  1736, 
made  them  over  into  his  private  gardens. 

It  was  thrown  open  to  the  public  in  1814.  From 
the  waterside,  passages  may  still  be  seen  leading  to 
the  ancient  dungeons,  now  used  for  the  imprison- 
ment of  beer.  On  the  corner,  under  the  Belvedere, 
is  a  crude  relief  of  the  Elector  Moritz  being  forced 
by  a  skeleton — a  "bone-man,"  as  the  Germans  say — 
to  hand  over  the  electoral  sword  to  his  brother 
August. 

This  very  sword  is  now  in  the  Johanneum,  an  old 
building  in  which  the  historical  museum  and  the 
royal  collection  of  porcelain  lodge  informally  above 
the  royal  stables.  The  portal  of  the  courtyard  is  the 
most  representative  piece  of  Renaissance  sculpture 
in  Dresden,  a  fusion  of  German  and  Italian  motifs 
setting  off  a  relief  of  the  Resurrection. 

In  the  center  of  the  court  is  the  tank  where  the 
royal  horses  were  washed,  and  an  inclined  horse-path 
leads  to  the  second  story  along  an  ivy-matted  wall 

297 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

above  which  appear  the  picturesque  gables  and  spire 
of  the  castle  and  the  tower  of  the  Court  Church. 

The  historical  museum  is  mainly  devoted  to  the 
history  of  war.  No  other  collection  has  given  me 
such  a  vision  of  the  glamour  and  romance  of  chivalry 
or  the  beauty  of  medieval  weapons  and  armor.  Here 
plumed  knights  joust  as  our  childhood  saw  them  in 
"Ivanhoe."  Here  one  feels  the  poetry  of  battle  as 
vividly  as,  in  the  arsenal  at  Berlin,  one  feels  its  scien- 
tific, realistic  side.  This  is  the  Scott,  that  the  Tol- 
stoi, of  war. 

The  royal  porcelain  collection  is  the  largest  and 
richest  of  its  kind  in  Europe.  Through  the  austeri- 
ties of  the  early  Chinese  work  one  gradually  ap- 
proaches the  melting  harmonies  of  Japanese  color, 
then  drops  back  centuries  to  the  first  red  German 
ware  of  Bottger,  and  on  through  the  early  whites  of 
Meissen,  and  its  colored  imitations  of  the  Asiatic,  to 
the  rococo  of  the  Zwinger  and  the  recent  Meissen 
ware  which  imitates  the  royal  Copenhagen.  Faience 
and  Italian  majolica  round  a  collection  of  which  the 
most  significant  part  is  the  group  of  giant  vases  in 
cobalt  blue  given  to  August  the  Strong  in  1717  by 
old  Frederick  William  of  Prussia  in  exchange  for  a 
regiment  of  tall  dragoons. 

The  Albertinum  cannot  compare  in  its  ancient 
sculpture  with  the  Glyptothek  of  Munich  or  even 

298 


DRESDEN 

with  Berlin's  Old  Museum;  but  the  modern  sculp- 
ture gallery  is  important  and  contains  a  collection  of 
medallions  even  more  exquisitely  chosen  than  the 
larger  collection  in  Hamburg. 

I  shall  not  forget  my  parting  from  Dresden.  One 
of  the  gay  steamers  that  ply  up-stream  dropped  me 
to  climb  the  heights  of.  Loschwitz  for  a  last  glimpse 
of  the  German  Florence  from  this  northern  Fiesole. 
There  it  lay,  checkered  with  patches  of  sunlight  and 
looking  almost  mysterious  through  a  delicate  mist— 
that  duomo,  the  Church  of  Our  Lady,  herding  its 
flock  of  comely  towers,  a  solid  Protestant  antithesis 
to  the  baroque  brilliance  of  the  Catholic  Court 
Church. 

There  lay  the  city  of  pleasure  in  all  its  beauty, 
interlaced  with  silvery  streaks  of  pond  and  river. 
And  toward  it,  sweeping  parallel  to  the  mighty  arc 
of  the  Elbe,  ran  a  broader  river  of  smooth  green 
meadow-land  fronting  the  villas  of  the  opposite 
shore. 

Backward  the  peaks  of  Saxon  Switzerland  were 
beckoning,  but  it  was  with  an  unaccustomed  regret 
that  I  turned  my  face  from  art  to  nature. 


299 


X 

MUNICH-A   CITY   OF   GOOD    NATURE 

AM  going  to  make  Munich  such  an  honor 
to  Germany,"  declared  Ludwig  I,  "that 
nobody  will  know  Germany  who  has  not 
seen  Munich." 

This  prophecy  has  not  only  been  ful- 
filled, but  fulfilled  in  such  a  natural,  spontaneous 
way  that  the  city  is  a  running  commentary  on  the 
character  of  its  citizens.  The  capital  of  northern 
Germany  is  less  an  expression  of  its  people  than  an 
embodiment  of  the  character  of  its  ruling  family; 
but  the  Southern  capital  is  an  open  book  wherein 
even  the  stranger  may  read  the  popular  love  of 
beauty  and  of  bohemian  ways;  the  untranslatable 
Gemiltlichkeit;  the  dislike  of  trade;  the  piety;  the 
simple,  reposeful  breadth ;  the  loyalty  to  superstition 
and  romance ;  and  the  score  of  other  qualities  that  go 
to  make  up  the  true  Miinchener. 

Munich  is,  in  great  part,  a  creation  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.    Yet  when  one  sees  how  cleverly  and 

300 


MUNICH-A  CITY  OF  GOOD  ^^ATURE 

how  lovingly  she  has  woven  the  new  about  whatever 
remains  of  the  old,  it  is  easy  to  understand  why  she 
has  been  Germany's  artistic  leader  for  the  last  hun- 
dred years,  and  why  such  men  of  genius  as  Lenbach, 
Von  Ulide,  Schwanthaler,  Orlando  di  Lasso,  and 
Richard  Strauss  have  felt  at  home  there. 

My  first  impression  of  Munich  was  of  a  place  sim- 
ply irradiated  with  the  love  of  beauty.  The  principal 
streets,  old  and  new,  seemed  as  exquisitely  calculated 
for  effects  of  vista  as  the  streets  of  Danzig;  the 
squares,  with  their  old  tower-gates  and  churches  and 
massed  houses,  were  grouped  as  if  composed  by  the 
eye  of  a  painter.  And  although  one  half  of  the 
Marien-Platz  is  the  work  of  our  day,  yet  few  squares 
in  Europe  have  given  me  a  deeper  sense  of  the  com- 
bined opulence  and  simplicity,  the  dignity  and  pure 
beauty,  that  used  to  invest  the  fonmis  of  medieval 
towns  like  Siena  and  Nuremberg. 

In  the  Pinakothek  I  found  a  gallery  of  old  paint- 
ings second  to  no  other  in  the  land  but  that  of  Dres- 
den, and  quite  as  strong  in  the  Germanic  schools  as 
Dresden  is  in  the  Italian.  Here  one  has  an  illumi- 
nating oversight  of  early  Rhenish  and  Netherlandish 
art,  and  how  it  led,  on  the  one  hand,  to  such  master- 
pieces as  the  elder  Holbein's  "St.  Sebastian"  and 
Diirer's  "Four  Temperaments";  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  canvases  like  Hals's  inimitable  little  por- 

301 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

trait  of  Willem  Croes,  Rembrandt's  "Descent  from 
the  Cross,"  and  the  huge  collection  of  Rubens,  that 
Dionysus  among  painters.  This  gallery  also  sur- 
passes Dresden's  in  the  works  of  Murillo  and  of 
Titian,  whose  "Christ  Crowned  with  Thorns"  is  one 
of  his  richest  canvases,  both  in  its  sensuous  and  its 
spiritual  appeal.  Indeed,  Fritz  von  Uhde  said  once 
to  me  that,  in  his  opinion,  this  was  the  greatest  pic- 
ture ever  painted.  The  building  itself  has  served 
for  generations  as  a  type  of  the  ideal  home  for  pic- 
tures. The  New  Pinakothek,  a  companion  struc- 
ture, holds  a  representative  assemblage  of  modern 
German  paintings,  while  the  Schack  Gallery  has  an 
unequaled  collection  of  Bocklin  and  of  Schwind,  that 
Grimm  of  the  easel  who  fixed  on  canvas  the  very 
essence  of  medieval  romance  and  fairy -lore.  In  the 
fascinating  new  National  Museum  I  found  a  vivid 
resume  of  the  complete  artistic  history  of  the  Ba- 
varians, a  collection  unrivaled  in  its  setting,  and 
rivaled  alone  in  its  content  by  the  Germanic  Museum 
at  Nuremberg.  It  was  typical  of  the  place  that  a 
whole  floor  should  be  given  over  to  those  tender, 
miniature  representations  of  the  Nativity  which  the 
Germans  call  Krippen.  The  Glyptothek  holds  an 
assemblage  of  masterpieces  of  Greek  sculpture  the 
equal  of  which  cannot  be  found  short  of  Rome  or 
Paris.     This  is  the  home  of  the  Barberini  Faun,  the 

802 


KARL'S  PLACE,  LOOKING  TOWARD  KARL'S  GATE,  AND  THE  CHURCH  OF  OUR  LADY 


MUNICH— A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

Rondanini  Medusa,  and  the  famous  pediment 
groups  from  ^Egina. 

But  despite  all  these  signs  of  a  rare  artistic  cul- 
ture, it  is  plain  that  the  Miinchener  has  one  passion 
passing  his  devotion  to  painting,  sculpture,  and 
architecture:  he  is  at  heart  a  child  of  the  open  air, 
and  might  sincerely  say  with  Landor, 

Nature  I  lov'd,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art.  ^ 

Through  and  through  he  is  a  devotee  of  those  en- 
chanted mountains  the  snow-capped  summits  of 
which  lend  the  finishing  touch  to  a  distant  view  of 
his  city ;  and  toward  whose  forests  and  gem-like  lakes 
he  instinctively  turns  with  Rucksack  and  staff  when- 
ever his  work  is  done.  In  those  leagues  of  grove 
and  stream  called  the  English  Garden;  in  the  bloom- 
ing wood-ways  along  the  riverside ;  and  in  the  flashes 
of  turf  and  blossom  and  foliage  that  punctuate  his 
city  the  Miinchener  seems  forever  proclaiming. 

My  heart 's  in  the  highlands. 

And  indeed  the  city's  bracing,  eager  mountain  air 
— blowing  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea — is 
largely  accountable  for  the  heaven-sent  Munich  tem- 
perament. This  climate  makes  optimists  as  readily 
as  that  of  Berlin  makes  pessimists. 

There  are  hereditary  reasons  for  the  Miincheners' 

^*  305 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

love  of  nature.  For  until  recently  a  majority  of  the 
population  had  peasant  blood  in  their  veins.  The 
North  Germans  are  constantly  reproaching  them  for 
their  origin;  but  to  a  foreigner  this  strain  of  rustic 
naturalness  and  simplicity,  found  in  the  third  largest 
city  in  the  land,  is  one  of  its  chief  charms. 

The  Miinchener  does  not  go  about  trying  to  look 
impressive  like  so  many  other  Germans,  but  is  as 
natural  as  a  lumberman  or  farmer.  The  city  is  so 
unconventional  that  a  stranger  must  be  very  dull  or 
very  tongue-tied  who  feels  lonely  there.  Any  one 
may  talk  to  almost  any  one,  and  a  mixed  crowd  at 
a  restaurant  table  is  soon  chatting  with  the  ease 
of  a  group  of  old  friends. 

Few  other  places  are  so  democratic.  In  the  great 
beer-halls  where  Munich  spends  many  of  its  leisure 
moments,  one  man  is  exactly  as  good  as  another. 
There  you  will  find  a  mayor  and  an  army  captain 
rubbing  shoulders  with  a  sweep  and  a  peddler,  and 
all  talking  and  laughing  together  with  no  sense  of 
constraint.  I  like  to  recall  a  fragment  of  democracy 
that  I  met  with  on  the  platform  of  a  trolley-car. 
There  were  five  of  us,  repesenting  almost  as  many 
grades  of  society.  To  us  entered  the  conductor, 
saluted,  and  reached  into  his  pocket.  I  supposed 
he  was  feeling  for  his  bundle  of  transfers.  Instead, 
he  pulled  forth  a  tortoise-shell  snuif-box  and  handed 

306 


MUNICH-A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

it  round.  My  fellow-passengers  took  their  pinches 
with  much  good  feeling.  Then  the  conductor  fixed  us 
each  in  turn  with  the  kindliest  eyes  in  the  world,  and 
dusted  his  ruddy  nose  with  a  bandana  equally  ruddy. 

Another  incident  was  quite  as  characteristic.  We 
were  audibly  admiring  a  picture  of  Carmen  Sylva  in 
a  window.  An  old  public  porter,  lounging  near  by, 
pricked  up  his  ears.  "What,"  he  cried,  ''she  beauti- 
ful? You  just  ought  to  see  my  Gretchen!"  And 
he  launched  into  an  enthusiastic  description  of  his 
wife  and  her  charms  of  face,  figure,  mind,  and  heart. 

Such  whole-souled  democracy  would  be  impossible 
without  the  famous  Gemiltlichkeit  of  JNIunich.  It 
is  a  misfortune  that  the  English  has  no  equivalent 
for  this  useful  and  eloquent  word.  Perhaps  the  lack 
is  also  significant.  It  means  a  sort  of  chronic  good- 
will-toward-men  attitude,  tinged  with  democracy 
and  bubbling  humor,  with  mountain  air,  and  a  large 
sympathy  for  the  other  fellow's  point  of  view.  Even 
Martin  Luther  called  these  people  "friendly  and 
good-hearted,"  and  declared  that  if  he  might  travel, 
he  would  rather  wander  through  Swabia  and  Ba- 
varia than  any\\^here  else.  And  this,  although  these 
stanch  Catholics  hated  the  Reformer  like  the  pest, 
and  to  this  day  still  libel  him  by  telling  how  he 
stopped  at  a  tavern  in  the  Sendlinger-Strasse  and 
ran  away  without  paying  for  his  sausage. 

307 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

The  Miincheners  are  quite  Austrian  in  the  hearti- 
ness of  their  salutations.  "Griiss  di  Gott!"  ("God 
greet  thee!")  friends  exclaim  on  meeting;  and 
"B'hut  di  Gott!"  ("God  keep  thee!")  at  parting. 
When  a  crowd,  in  breaking  up,  coos  a  general 
Adje^  it  is  as  though  they  had  broken  forth  into 
a  chorus  of  gentle  song.  "One  almost  has  to  say 
good-by  to  the  trees  here,"  a  Chicago  girl  once 
declared. 

The  Miincheners  are  so  good-natured  that  they 
hate  to  trouble  one  for  their,  just  dues.  I  have  had 
more  than  one  landlady  who  could  hardly  be  induced 
to  present  her  bill,  and  even  then  half  the  extras  were 
not  included.  On  a  certain  street-car  line  I  was 
never  approached  for  fare  during  four  consecutive 
rides.  And  yet — strange  paradox — Munich,  is  the 
gateway  of  greedy  Italy,  and  its  people  have  many 
marked  Italian  characteristics. 

They  have  in  their  Gemiltlichkeit  a  humorous 
streak  capable  of  saving  almost  any  situation. 
"Dawn  breaks  after  the  blackness  of  night,"  ex- 
claimed the  servant,  with  an  engaging  smile,  as  she 
brought  in  my  omelet  forty  minutes  late. 

Thus  equipped,  they  can  extract  pleasure  from 
anything — even  from  the  new  annex  to  the  imposing 
court  of  justice.  This  annex  is  gaudy  with  enam- 
eled tiles,  and  makes  a  violent  discord  with  the  older, 

308 


MUNICH-A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

baroque  building,  A  story  is  current  of  a  con- 
demned murderer  who  was  allowed  a  last  wish. 

"Kindly  lead  me  past  the  new  court  of  justice," 
he  answered,  "that  I  may  have  one  more  good  laugh 
before  I  die." 

Twice  a  year  all  the  exuberant,  bohemian  quali- 
ties of  the  people  find  full  outlet.  The  October  Fes- 
tival is  held  on  the  Theresien  Wiese,  near  Schwan- 
thaler's  colossal  statue  of  Bavaria,  and,  on  a  large 
scale,  is  a  cross  between  an  American  circus  and  a 
French  fete.  The  Karneval  is  the  most  festive  sea- 
son in  the  calendar.  Twice  a  week  from  Twelfth 
Night  to  Ash  Wednesday  there  are  masked  balls  in 
which  nearly  every  one  joins.  During  Karneval,  all 
necessity"  for  introductions  in  a  public  place  is  set 
aside,  and  no  man  may  insist  on  monopolizing  his 
partner.  The  last  three  days  are  called  Fasching, 
and  then  the  fun  grows  fast  and  furious.  General 
license  reigns  indoors  and  out.  For  seventy-two 
hours  there  is  little  thought  of  sleep.  The  streets 
are  alive  with  masks  and  costumes,  with  confetti  and 
paper  serpents.  Any  masked  lady  may  be  kissed 
with  impunity,  and  few  are  unmasked.  It  is  a  scene 
even  more  hilarious  and  brilliant  than  that  other 
carnevale  which  seethes  up  and  down  the  Roman 
Corso.  And  this  festival  seems  to  come  more 
directly  "out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart"  than 

309 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

the  Italian  one.  There  it  has  a  marked  theatrical 
quality.  Here  it  is  a  sincere,  hearty,  intimate  ex- 
pression of  the  brotherhood  of  man,  the  sisterhood  of 
woman. 

This  intimate  quality,  found  even  amid  the  mad- 
ness of  Karneval,  is  one  of  the  things  that  endear  the 
city  most  to  those  who  know  it.  In  absence  one 
yearns  for  certain  Munich  sights  as  for  the  sight  of 
tried  and  trusted  friends. 

The  Old  Rathaus,  for  instance,  has  a  specially 
intimate  appeal,  with  its  noble  tower-gate  and  its 
simple,  beautiful  hall  enlivened  by  the  Gothic  humor 
of  Grasser's  dancing  figures.  One  has  much  the 
same  feeling  for  the  great,  homely  tower  of  St. 
Peter's  ("The  Old  Peter,"  in  the  vernacular), 
whence  on  Saturday  evenings  and  Sunday  mornings 
a  trombone  quartet  breathes  mellow  chorales ;  for  the 
little  Church  of  St.  John,  built  next  their  own  fanci- 
ful house,  and  presented  to  Munich  by  those  re- 
nowned artists,  the  Asam  brothers,  who  poured  out 
on  its  walls  so  much  native  buoyancy  and  humor; 
for  the  toy  houses  of  the  village-like  Au,  clustering 
along  their  brook ;  for  the  dear  old  St.  Jacobs-Platz ; 
and  perhaps  most  of  all  for  the  gigantic  body  and 
thick,  dusty-red  towers  of  the  Church  of  Our 
Lady,  like  a  portly,  genial,  confiding  burgher, 
ready  to  welcome  you  into  his  heart  on  the  slightest 
provocation. 

310 


CHURCH  OF  ST.  JOHN 


MUNICH-A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

Artists,  as  a  rule,  detest  commerce,  and  these  ar- 
tistic people  have  had  to  make  trade  as  attractive 
as  possible  for  themselves.  Hence  they  have  chosen 
to  deal  in  the  two  things  they  like  best,  art  and  beer. 

Munich  is  not  only  the  center  of  the  arts  and  crafts 
movement,  of  the  photographic,  lithographic,  and 
allied  industries,  but  also,  owing  to  its  honesty  and 
its  situation  in  the  center  of  Europe,  it  is  the  best 
place  to  buy  "antiquities."  There  is  even  one  com- 
mercial institution  which  the  JNIiincheners  actually 
contrive  to  invest  with  their  carnival  spirit.  The 
Dult  is  a  biennial  rag-fair,  covering  many  acres 
near  the  toy  houses  of  the  Au.  Here,  amid  the 
booths  that  hold  the  Bavarian  junk  harvest  of  the 
last  six  months,  the  eye  of  the  enthusiast  may  dis- 
cover Egyptian  and  Roman  bronzes,  fine  old  laces 
and  embroidered  vestments,  Sicilian  terra-cottas, 
Renaissance  furniture  and  ironwork,  Russian  brasses, 
even  precious  prints  and  paintings,  enamels  and 
jewels,  going  for  a  mere  song.  The  knowing  dis- 
guise themselves  in  rags  in  order  to  buy  cheaper.  All 
one's  friends  are  there,  and  when  any  one  makes  a 
lucky  find,  all  the  rest  join  his  impromptu  carnival 
of  triumph  at  the  Citizens'  Brewery  hard  by. 

INIunich  brews  more  and  better  beer  than  any  other 
city.  It  is  hard  to  realize  what  an  integral  part  of 
the  place  and  its  people  this  liquid  is,  and  what  a 
deep  sentiment  they  have  for  it.     I  once  overheard 

313 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

a  short  dialogue  entirely  characteristic  of  the  local 
point  of  view: 

Waitress:  "Yet  another  beer?" 

Citizen:  "What  a  question!" 

"The  Bavarian  can  put  up  with  anything,"  runs 
a  well-known  proverb,  "even  with  the  fires  of  purga- 
tory, if  only  he  can  have  his  beer."  It  flows  in  his 
veins;  and  one  is  sometimes  tempted  to  call  what 
flows  beneath  the  beautiful  bridges  "the  Isarbrau." 

The  saying  goes  that  those  landmarks,  the  twin 
towers  of  the  Church  of  Our  Lady,  are  capped  by 
two  great  beer-mugs.  And  the  city's  symbol  is  the 
far-famed  Miinchener  Kindl — a  boy  in  a  monk's 
habit  and  often  with  a  stein  in  his  hand.  Legend  ex- 
plains the  figure  by  telling  how  our  Saviour  once 
came  down,  disguised  as  a  little  child,  to  bless  the 
place  and  further  the  good  works  of  the  monks,  who 
were  the  original  local  brewers.  In  this  connection 
it  is  interesting  to  know  that  Cloister  Schaftlarn,  the 
germ  of  Munich,  still  turns  out  an  excellent  brew. 

For  many  centuries  the  quality  of  Munich  beer 
has  been  jealously  guarded  by  law.  There  is  an 
amusing  rhymed  legend  about  the  methods  of  in- 
spection. Three  chosen  councilors  went  to  the 
brewery,  but  instead  of  pouring  the  beer  down  their 
throats,  they  poured  it  upon  a  bench,  sat  down  to- 
gether, then  rose,  said  started  for  the  door.     If  the 

314 


MUNICH-A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

bench  accompanied  them  all  the  way,  then  the  beer 
was  strong  and  good.  "But  in  these  degenerate 
days,"  wails  the  chronicler,  "far  from  having  the 
bench  stick  to  them,  they  stick,  instead,  to  the  bench!" 

A  marked  trait  of  this  hearty  people  is  their  devo- 
tion to  the  ancient  line  of  Wittelsbach.  In  tem- 
perament many  of  the  dukes  and  kings  of  Bavaria 
have  shown  themselves  true  Miincheners,  specially 
in  their  love  of  beauty;  and  while,  in  many  cases, 
their  architectural  taste  has  not  fully  expressed  the 
character  of  the  people,  yet,  from  the  first  ducal 
castle  down  to  the  National  INIuseum  and  the  new 
bridges,  the  Wittelsbachs  have  filled  the  centuries 
with  architecture  which  is,  on  the  whole,  racy  of  the 
soil,  though  many  of  the  buildings  are  in  the  styles 
of  distant  ages  and  nations. 

These  Wittelsbachs  have  been  closer  to  their  peo- 
ple than  most  ruling  houses,  and  some  of  them  have 
been  loved  in  return  as  kindred  spirits.  It  is  touch- 
ing to  remember  how  they  would  call  out  to  Max 
Joseph  as  he  rode  past  in  troublous  times:  "Weil  du 
nur  da  bist,  Maxl,  ist  alles  gut."  ("Seeing  you  're 
here,  Many,  everything  's  all  right.")  On  the  abdi- 
cation of  their  Maecenas,  Ludwig  I,  thej^  brought  the 
old  man  to  tears  with  their  wild  demonstrations  of 
affection ;  and  aged  citizens  have  told  me  that  heart- 
breaking  scenes   were   witnessed   when   it   became 

315 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

known  that  mad  Ludwig  II  had  taken  his  own 
life. 

The  earlier  Wittelsbach  architecture  is  more  in 
harmony  with  Munich  character  than  is  the  later. 
There  is  the  romantic  "Old  Court,"  on  the  site  of  the 
first  ducal  castle,  with  its  Gothic  portals  and  f  a9ades, 
its  picturesque,  dunce-capped  oriel  window,  and  the 
quaint  fountain  murmuring  in  the  center. 

Near  by,  from  a  lane  behind  the  post-office,  one 
comes  suddenly  upon  the  old  Tourney  Court,  now 
called  the  Court  of  the  Mint.  It  is  a  typical  work 
of  the  German  Renaissance.  The  oblong  space  is 
surrounded  by  three  tiers  of  colonnades,  and  the 
squat,  dusky-red  pillars  and  flattened  arches  breathe 
the  ponderous  Gemutlichheit  of  the  days  when  Mu- 
nich used  to  applaud  the  flower  of  Bavarian  nobility 
breaking  lances  in  the  lists  below,  the  pavement  of 
which  is  now  littered  with  the  charcoal  and  the  cru- 
cibles of  the  royal  mint. 

About  the  palace  itself  there  hangs  little  of  the 
atmosphere  of  olden  days.  For  each  ruler  of  the 
long  line  felt  it  his  duty  to  add  to,  subtract  from, 
multiply,  and  divide  this  huge  complex,  until  the 
medieval  was  almost  eliminated,  and  many  of  the 
later  portions  became  unimpassioned  echoes  of 
French  or  Italian  prototypes.  For  all  this,  there  are 
a  few  parts  of  the  palace  that  delightfully  reflect  the 
Miinchener.      "Wherever   the   garment   of   foreign 

316 


COURT  Ol'"  TIIK  IIOl'iiKAiniAUS  (KOVAI,  liRliWIiRY) 


MUNICH-A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

style  did  not  quite  come  together,"  as  Weese  quaintly 
says,  "the  honest  German  skin  peeped  through." 

In  the  long,  formal  sweep  of  the  western  fa9ade, 
for  example,  a  bronze  Madonna  stands  in  a  niche 
above  an  ever-glowing  light,  a  tender  German  motif 
borrowed  from  the  highland  farmhouse,  with  its 
wooden  patron  saint. 

In  the  Grotto  Court  one  comes  suddenly  on  a  de- 
lightful instance  of  Bavarian  charm — a  vivid  fleck 
of  soft  turf  full  of  water-babies  on  ivied  pedestals 
surrounding  a  fountain  of  Perseus  worthy  of  the 
streets  of  old  Augsburg.  The  plashing  of  the  water, 
the  cool  greens  and  yellows  of  the  palace  walls,  the 
perfect  patina  of  the  sculptures,  the  fantastic  shell 
grotto  at  one  end — all  make  a  pleasant  contrast  to 
the  monotonous  splendors  of  the  long  festal  suites 
within. 

In  the  Fountain  Court  there  is  less  of  dreamy 
charm  and  more  of  the  carnival  spirit.  On  a  jolly 
rococo  pedestal  of  mossed  stone  poses  Otto  the 
Great,  with  his  eye  on  the  crowd  of  frivolous  water 
deities  below,  among  whom  are  the  genii  of  the  four 
rollicking  rivers  of  Bavaria.  They  have  that  lovely 
iridescence  which  seems  to  thrive  best  on  the  bronzes 
of  Munich,  and  which  is  specially  brilliant  on  the 
Little  Red  Riding-Hood  fountain  in  the  Platzl. 

The  archway  leading  to  the  Chapel  Court  contains 

319 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

some  reminders  of  the  good  old  days.  Chained  to  the 
earth  is  a  black  stone  weighing  about  four  hundred 
pounds.  A  rhymed  inscription  relates  how,  in  the 
year  1490,  Duke  Christopher  picked  it  up  and 
"hurled  it  far  without  injuring  himself."  This  is 
the  same  hero  who,  at  the  corner  of  the  Marien- 
Platz  called  Wurmeck,  killed  a  dragon  that  was  ter- 
rorizing the  town.  It  seems  that  the  good  duke  was 
in  love  with  a  beautiful  and  popular  daughter  of  the 
people,  and  that  he  agreed  with  his  two  rival  suitors 
to  hold  a  sort  of  field-day  and  let  the  best  man  win 
the  maiden.     The  first  event  was  putting  the  stone, 

• 

and  Christopher  won.  The  second  was  hitch-kick- 
ing, and  three  nails  in  the  wall  immortalize  the  three 
astonishing  records.    The  inscription  proceeds: 

Drey  Nagel  stecken  hie  vor  Augen, 

Die  mag  ein  jeder  Springer  schaugen, 

Der  hochste  zwolf  Schuech  vun  der  Erdt, 

Den  Herzog  Christoph  Ehrenwerth 

Mit  seinem  Fuess  herab  that  schlagen. 

Kunrath  luef  bis  zum  ander'  Nagel, 

Wol  vo'  der  Erdt  zehnthalb  Schuech, 

Ncunthalben  Philipp  Springer  luef, 

Zum  dritten  Nagel  an  der  Wandt. 

Wer  hoher  springt,  wird  auch  bekannt. 

(Before  your  eyes  protrude  nails  three 
Which  every  jumper  ought  to  see. 
The  highest,  twelve  shoes  from  the  earth, 
Duke  Christopher,  a  man  of  worth, 
320 


MU^^ICH-A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

Kicked  from  its  proud  position  there. 
Conrad  leaped  up  into  the  air 
Unto  the  second — ten  shoes  steep. 
Unto  the  third — Phil  Springer's  leap — 
Was  nine  and  a  half  shoes  from  the  ground. 
Who  higher  leaps  will  be  renowned. ) 

The  poet  Gorres  concludes  a  lyric  on  this  event  with 
the  apposite  wish: 

Und  nioge  unsern  Fiirsten  all 

Der  liebe  Gott  verleihn 
Aus  jeder  Noth  den  rechten  Sprung 
Und  Kraft  fiir  jeden  Stein. 

(And  may  the  dear  Lord  to  each  one 
Of  all  our  rulers  loan 
Skill  to  leap  out  of  every  ill 
And  strength  for  every  stone.) 

Where  mthin  palace  gates  is  to  be  found  a  more 
striking  memorial  of  good-fellowship  between  ruler 
and  subject? 

In  its  ground-plan,  in  its  monumental  f  a9ades  and 
its  long  flights  of  festal  cliambers,  the  palace  shows 
a  simple,  reposeful  breadth  that  is  characteristic  of 
the  city  and  its  people.  It  is  the  sort  of  breadth  that 
one  looks  for  in  the  work  of  great  artists.  And  one 
imagines  that  there  has  entered  into  the  JNIiinchener 
something  of  the  generous,  free  spirit  of  his  marbles 
from  JEig'ma,  of  his  Titian  canvases,  and  of  the  calm 
strength  of  his  hills. 

321 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

He  is  built  on  large,  deliberate  lines— a  person  not 
to  be  hurried  or  crowded.  His  speech  is  broad  and 
slow,  and  even  his  graves  are  set  unusually  far  from 
one  another. 

This  large  quality  is  specially  marked  in  Munich's 
four  monumental  streets.  The  Brienner-Strasse 
takes  its  stately  way  from  the  portal  of  the  Royal 
Gardens  to  the  Konigs-Platz,  a  square  the  simple 
majesty  of  which  might  suggest  the  Athenian 
Acropolis.  In  front  is  the  Doric  dignity  of  the  Pro- 
pyl^ea,  erected  to  celebrate  in  advance  Bavaria's  ill- 
fated  attempt  to  shake  Greece  free  of  Turkey.  On 
each  hand  are  Ionic  and  Corinthian  temples,  devoted 
respectively  to  sculpture  and  the  Secessionist  school 
of  painting.  Between  these  serene,  broadly  modeled 
buildings  lie  only  stretches  of  turf  and  roadway. 

The  great  simplicity  of  such  a  scene  is  exagger- 
ated in  the  Ludwig-Strasse  into  monotonous  auster- 
ity, especially  where  the  hard  Roman  Arch  of 
Triumph,  the  cloister-like  university,  the  Ludwig 
Church,  and  the  public  buildings  line  up  their  dreary 
fa9ades.  But,  in  spite  of  these,  it  is  an  imposing 
street.  It  shows  at  its  best  when  the  sun  of  early 
afternoon  slants  down  to  correct  its  horizontal  lines, 
or  when,  at  sunset,  every  homely  westward  road  be- 
comes a  flaming  way  to  some  enchanted  castle,  and, 
behind  the  Hall  of  Generals,  the  tower  of  the  New 

322 


MUNICH-A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

Rathaus  changes  in  the  glow  to  a  tower  of  quick- 
silver. The  southern  end  of  the  Ludwig-Strasse  is 
most  delightful  at  noon,  when  the  military  band 
plays  and  the  gay  crowd  comes  to  promenade  and 
see  the  Royal  Guard  relieved. 

These  newer  parts  of  JNIunich  have  been  called  the 
Wittelsbachs'  note-book  of  travel,  where  they  have 
recorded  in  stone  and  bronze  their  deepest  impres- 
sions of  other  lands.  In  the  Konigs-Platz  they  wrote 
down  their  love  of  Greece,  and  their  love  of  Italy  in 
the  Odeons-Platz. 

The  Hall  of  Generals  is  a  copy  of  the  Florentine 
Loggia  dei  Lanzi;  the  church  of  the  Theatines  on 
the  right  was  modeled  after  the  Church  of  S.  Andrea 
della  Valle  in  Rome ;  on  the  left,  the  western  f a9ade 
of  the  palace  is  typically  Italian,  while  the  southern 
was  actually  copied  from  the  Pitti  Palace.  The  very 
pigeons  graciously  peck  corn  from  the  palms  of 
American  tourists  in  the  accepted  Venetian  manner. 
One  sees  over  the  foliage  of  the  Royal  Garden  the 
iridescence  of  the  Army  Museum's  dome  and  the 
lordly  tower  of  St.  Anna's,  and  involuntarily  glances 
about,  wondering  why  there  are  no  dark-skinned  folk 
sipping  their  wine  on  the  sidewalk ;  why  no  forms  in 
roseate  rags  lie  asleep  on  the  steps  of  the  loggia,  and 
why  no  melting  voice  and  prehensile  fingers  are 
touching  one's  heart  and  sleeve  for  ''un  soldo!" 

323 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Though  the  Maximihans-Strasse  is  unfortunate 
architecturally,  yet  there  is  the  same  grand  manner 
in  its  round-arched  buildings,  and  something  nobly 
commanding  in  the  way  the  Maximilianeum  domi- 
nates the  city  from  among  the  gardens  across  the 
Isar. 

With  its  splendid  new  home  for  Wagnerian  music- 
drama  and  its  National  Museum,  the  modern  Prinz- 
regenten-Strasse,  laid  out  by  some  inspiration  in  a 
gentle,  medieval  curve,  shows  that  the  city  is  not  lag- 
ging behind  her  traditions. 

The  best  exemplar  of  this  quality  of  reposeful 
breadth,  the  Church  of  Our  Lady,  is  exemplar  also 
of  another  leading  trait  of  Munich — her  deep  relig- 
ious spirit.  In  fact,  these  simple,  massive  walls, 
adorned  outside  and  in  with  quaint  and  beautiful 
carvings  and  paintings,  seem  to  epitomize  the  whole 
Miinchener.  Some  of  the  tombstones,  like  that  of  the 
blind  musician,  are  even  suffused  with  a  kindly  hu- 
mor; and  around  the  mausoleum  of  Emperor  Lud- 
wig  the  Bavarian,  a  worthy  companion  piece  to 
Maximilian's  tomb  at  Innsbruck,  one  may  see  the 
love  these  warm-hearted  people  still  bear  to  one  who 
made  Munich's  fortunes  his  own.  Among  the  many 
legends  that  cluster  here  is  one  of  this  emperor,  who 
was  found,  centuries  after  his  death,  in  the  crypt  un- 
der the  mausoleum,  sitting  upright  on  his  throne,  as 

n24> 


MUNICH-A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

Charlemagne  is  said  to  have  been  found  at  Aix-la- 
Chapelle. 

There  is  a  black  foot^Jrint  on  the  pavement  under 
the  organ-loft  at  a  place  where  a  curious  architec- 
tural trick  has  made  all  the  windows  invisible.  There 
one  is  told  how  the  builder  of  the  church  made  a  com- 
pact with  the  devil,  who  agreed  to  help  him  on  con- 
dition that  God's  sunlight  should  be  kept  out  of  the 
building.  The  devil  saw  the  windows  growing,  and 
was  glad.  "Come  along  with  me,"  said  he  to  the 
builder.  "Come  along  yourself,"  cried  the  builder, 
and  led  him  under  the  choir-loft.  The  devil  looked 
in  vain  for  a  window,  stamped  his  foot  in  impotent 
rage,  and  vanished.  But  his  footprint  has  remained 
to  this  day. 

The  builder  of  St.  Michael's  was  less  fortunate, 
for  when  he  had  completed  the  bold  barrel-vaulting 
that  spans  the  most  noteworthy  of  German  Renais- 
sance halls,  it  is  said  that  he  cast  himself  from  the 
roof  in  despair,  fearing  that  his  work  would  not 
stand.  This  majestic  church  was  built  by  the  Jesuits 
to  celebrate  the  coming  triumph  of  the  Counter-Ref- 
ormation. It  was  an  eloquent  prophecy  of  Munich's 
present  Roman  Catholic  solidarity. 

St.  Peter's  is  the  oldest  local  church,  and  contains 
the  choicest  tombstones ;  but  the  interior  has  suffered 
shockingly  from  the  vandals  of  baroque  times. 

15  327 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

These  older  examples  of  the  Munich  churches  well 
represent  the  broad,  simple,  reposeful  characteristics 
of  the  place.  Certain  younger  ones,  however,  like 
All  Saints',  Trinity,  St.  John's,  and  the  Church  of 
the  Jesuits,  fairly  sparkle,  in  their  baroque  and  ro- 
coco finery,  with  the  carnival  spirit. 

The  most  noteworthy  modern  churches  are  the 
Court  Church,  a  little  Byzantine  pearl  of  a  place  that 
transports  one  in  a  breath  to  the  atmosphere  of  the 
Cappella  Palatina  at  Palermo;  and  the  Basilica  of 
St.  Boniface,  Ludwig's  record  of  his  most  precious 
hours  in  Ravenna  and  Rome.  But,  of  all  the  later 
churches,  St.  Anna's  is  my  favorite.  Built  of  rough 
coquina,  its  picturesque  complex  of  gables,  turrets, 
and  spires  grouped  about  the  central  tower  is  already 
finely  weathered.  The  broad,  walled  terrace,  the 
moated  fountain  borne  on  pillars,  the  deeply  felt 
modeling  of  the  fa9ade,  the  portal  worthy  of  some 
great  medieval  builder — all  these  blend  in  an  ensem- 
ble the  equal  of  which  I  have  not  seen  elsewhere  in 
modern  Romanesque  architecture. 

All  these  churches  are  real  places  of  worship.  One 
finds  there  the  same  spirit  of  fervor  that  one  expects 
to  find  in  Tyrol  or  Italy.  And  this  is  natural,  for  the 
city  grew  out  of  a  religious  institution  near  by,  and 
its  very  name — Ad  Monachos,  or  "At  the  Monks" — 
stamps  it  as  the  child  of  Cloister  Schaftlarn.     The 

328 


a^ 


THE  CHURCH  OF  ST.  ANNA 


MUNICH-A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

whole  daily  walk  and  conversation  of  the  people  is 
connected  in  some  way  with  ecclesiasticism.  They 
say  of  anything  that  moves  rapidly:  "It  runs  like  a 
paternoster";  of  a  heavy  drinker,  "He  guzzles  like  a 
Knight  Templar."  A  mild  state  of  intoxication  is 
called  a  Jesiiitenrduschlein;  while  an  unfortunate  in 
the  advanced  stages  is  "as  drunk  as  a  Capuchin 
father." 

In  Catholic  communities  farther  north  there  is  a 
strain  of  cooler  intellectuality  in  the  devotions  of  the 
people.  Here  all  is  emotion.  In  fact,  until  recently 
this  lack  of  balance  has  had  a  grievous  effect  on  IMu- 
nich's  intellectual  life,  which  can  boast  few  writers 
of  note.  But  it  has,  on  the  other  hand,  kept  a  warm 
place  in  the  hearts  of  the  people  for  romantic  legends 
and  superstitions.  The  Miinchener  has  clung  so 
much  more  successfully  to  these  beliefs  than  to  his 
medieval  buildings  that  the  place  gives  the  illusion  of 
having  more  atmosphere  than  its  architecture  would 
warrant. 

The  folk  still  call  Tuesday  and  Thursday  by  the 
ancient  names,  Irtag  ( day  of  the  war-god  Ares )  and 
Pfinztag,  from  the  Greek  for  Fifth  Day. 

On  Twelfth  Night  they  cast  evil  spirits  out  of  their 
homes  with  a  ceremony  descended  in  substance  di- 
rectly from  the  heathen  rites  of  Odin.  They  move 
from  room  to  room,  sprinkling  the  powder  of  sacred 

331 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

herbs  on  a  shovelful  of  live  coals,  and  write  up  over 
every  door  with  consecrated  chalk  the  mystic  initials 
f  C  f M  f B.  These  letters  stand  for  the  three  Wise 
Men  of  the  East,  Caspar,  Melchior,  and  Balthasar. 

This  is  of  a  piece  with  the  conservative  instinct  that 
still  continues  the  Passion  Play  in  the  neighboring 
village  of  Oberammergau. 

With  their  Bavarian  zest  m  anecdote,  the  people 
love  to  tell  of  a  basilisk  which  lived  in  a  well  on  the 
Schrammer-Gasse  opposite  the  present  bureau  of 
police.  The  glance  of  this  medieval  Medusa  killed 
all  who  looked  at  it,  until  some  German  Perseus  held 
a  mirror  over  the  well  and  let  the  creature  slay  itself. 

The  local  belief  in  witches  and  black  art  is  wonder- 
fully persistent.  Tales  are  still  current  of  spirits 
who  took  the  form  of  black  calves  and  could  be  out- 
witted only  by  being  banned  into  a  tin  bottle  with  a 
screw-top.  There  is  the  legend  of  an  unprincipled 
lawyer  who  died  and  was  laid  out  in  the  usual  way 
with  crucifix  and  candles.  All  at  once  two  black  ra- 
vens appeared  at  the  window,  broke  the  pane  with 
their  beaks,  and  flew  away  again  with  a  third  raven 
which  suddenly  appeared  from  within  the  chamber  of 
death.  The  candles  were  quenched  in  a  trice,  the  cru- 
cifix overturned,  and  the  lawyer's  corpse  turned  as 
black  as  night. 

Then  there  is  the  favorite  story  of  Diez  von  Swin- 

332 


MUNICH-A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

burg,  a  robber  knight  who,  with  four  of  his  men,  was 
caught  and  condemned  to  death.  Diez  begged  in 
vain  for  the  lives  of  his  comrades.  Finally  he  cried : 
"Will  you,  then,  spare  as  many  as  I  run  past  after  I 
have  been  beheaded?"  With  contemptuous  laughter 
the  request  was  granted. 

Diez  placed  his  men  in  a  line,  eight  feet  apart,  with 
those  he  loved  best  nearest  him.  Well  pleased,  he 
knelt  down.  His  head  fell.  Then  he  rose,  turned, 
ran  stumbling  past  all  of  his  followers,  and  collapsed 
in  a  heap. 

People  who  cherish  such  beliefs  do  not  easily  give 
up  time-honored  customs,  and  IMunich  is  still  rich  in 
romantic  rites.  During  the  plague  of  1517,  when 
half  the  city  lay  dead  and  the  other  half  was  stricken 
with  despair,  the  Gild  of  Coopers  gave  every  one 
fresh  heart  by  organizing  an  impromptu  carnival  of 
dance  and  song  in  those  terrible  streets.  Once  every 
seven  years,  in  honor  of  this  act,  the  Schaffler  Tanz, 
or  Coopers'  Dance,  still  takes  place,  the  coopers 
dancing  in  their  ancient  garb — green  caps,  red  satin 
doublets,  long  white  hose — and  carrying  half-hoops 
bound  with  evergreen. 

Sad  to  say,  the  picturesque  Metzgersprung,  or 
Butchers'  Leap,  has  been  recently  done  away.  After 
a  jolly  round  of  dancing  and  parades  and  a  service 
in  "The  Old  Peter,"  the  Butchers'  Gild  would  meet 

333 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

around  the  Fish  Fountain  in  the  Marien-Platz  and, 
after  elaborate  ceremonies,  the  graduating  appren- 
tices, dressed  in  calfskins,  would  leap  into  the  basin 
and  thus  be  baptized  as  full-fledged  butchers. 

In  this  same  beloved  square  the  pick  of  all  Munich, 
old  and  young,  joins  in  the  Corpus  Christi  proces- 
sion, which,  gay  with  students'  caps  and  banners  and 
gild-insignia,  winds  from  the  Church  of  Our  Lady 
and  groups  its  rainbow  colors  around  the  old  Pillar 
of  Mary,  where  the  archbishop,  who  has  been  pre- 
ceded by  white-robed  maidens  with  flowers  and  can- 
dles, reads  the  Scriptures. 

Despite  its  worship  of  the  past,  however,  Munich 
is,  on  the  whole,  a  progressive  city.  Its  recent  com- 
mercial strides  have  been  astonishing.  For  a  century 
it  has  led  Germany  in  artistic  matters.  And  that  it 
still  leads,  is  shown  by  its  annual  exhibitions  of 
painting  and  sculpture,  of  arts  and  crafts,  and  by 
such  architecture  as  the  National  Museum,  St. 
Anna's,  the  building  of  the  "Allgemeine  Zeitung," 
and  some  of  the  new  school-houses. 

The  Isar  Valley,  Schleissheim,  and  Nymphenburg 
belong  even  more  intimately  to  Munich  than  the 
Havel  and  Potsdam  belong  to  Berlin.  To  wander 
through  the  fragrant  woods  and  by  the  castles  and 
quaint  villages  of  the  Isar  gorge  is  to  hear  and  see 

334 


MUNICH— A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

the  Miinchener  at  his  best.  For  he  is  always  taking 
a  few  hours  off  there,  and  is  always  laughing  and 
singing  and  yodeling.  It  seems  as  though  the  happy 
creature  cannot  turn  his  face  away  from  town  and 
swing  into  stride  without  breaking  into  one  of  his 
hearty  songs. 

The  castle  of  Schleissheim  was  built,  like  St. 
Michael's  and  the  Propylsea,  to  celebrate  a  future 
triumph.  For  Max  Emanuel  imagined  that  he  was 
going  to  be  elected  emperor,  and  could  not  restrain 
his  exuberance  at  the  thought.  Those  splendid  ba- 
roque halls  never  held  his  imperial  court,  for  he  was 
driven  into  exile  before  they  were  finished;  but  they 
hold  to-day  one  of  the  foremost  Bavarian  collections 
of  paintings,  especially  rich  in  the  old  German 
school.  The  formal  gardens,  with  their  statues, 
vases,  and  tree-fringed  waters,  contrast  pleasantly 
with  the  severe  facades  of  the  castle,  and  form  a  sort 
of  prelude  to  the  more  generous  scale  of  Nymphen- 
burg,  the  most  lovable  of  all  the  many  German  para- 
phrases of  Versailles. 

My  first  visit  to  Nymphenburg  was  on  a  perfect 
afternoon  in  late  summer.  I  came  into  a  circle  of 
buildings  almost  a  mile  in  circumference,  a  barren, 
baroque  circle  inclosing  a  cheerless  waste  full  of  ugly 
canals  and  ponds,  where  the  lords  and  ladies  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  in  their  gondolas,  used  to  ape  the 

337 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

water  fetes  of  France  and  Italy.  There  is  all  too 
little  of  the  festal  spirit  left  there  now. 

But  on  the  other  side  of  the  castle  the  atmosphere 
changed  like  magic.  I  plunged  into  a  brilliant  Ver- 
sailles, but  a  sweeter,  more  gemutlich  one  than  any  of 
my  acquaintance— a  vast  garden  that  knew  how  to 
be  at  once  formal  and  natural.  There  was  a  wide 
sweep  of  lawn  where  old  women  and  bullocks  and 
rustic  wains  were  busied  with  haycocks  among  long 
rows  of  marble  deities  and  urns.  In  the  middle  of 
the  scene  a  fountain  flashed  high  in  the  sunlight,  fall- 
ing among  rough  rocks.  Humorous  lines  of  Noah's 
Ark  evergreens  stood  attention.  In  the  distance,  be- 
yond a  linden-flanked  canal,  were  waterfalls;  and 
one  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  misty  horizon.  Right 
and  left,  narrower  lanes  of  foliage  opened  vistas  of 
water-flecked  lawns  checkered  with  patches  of  sun- 
light. Far  away  gleamed  little  pools,  as  bright  as 
pools  of  molten  steel,  and  near  one  of  them  I  came 
upon  a  dream  of  a  summer-house  called  the  Amalien- 
burg,  one  of  the  most  delicate  and  radiant  bits  of 
rococo  fantasy  in  the  German  land. 

Munich  is  so  diffuse  a  city  that  it  is  hard  to  think  of 
it  as  a  unit  until  one  has  seen  it  from  some  high  place. 
It  was  a  revelation  to  me  when  I  climbed  past  the 
chimes  of  "The  Old  Peter"  to  the  town-pipers'  bal- 

338 


THE  NEW  RATHAUS  IN  THE  MIDDLE  GROUND,  AND  THE  TOWERS  OF  THE 
CHURCH  OF  OUR  LADY  IX  THE  DISTANCE 


MUNICH-A  CITY  OF  GOOD  NATURE 

cony.  There  lay  the  city  as  flat  as  a  lake.  To  the 
westward  was  a  jumble  of  sharp,  tiled  roofs,  turning 
the  skylights  of  myriad  studios  searchingly  toward 
heaven,  as  though  the  houses  were  all  bespectacled 
professors.  Beyond  the  eloquent  front  of  St. 
Michael's  rose  the  court  of  justice  in  all  its  dignity, 
with  the  humorous  annex  which  the  murderer  begged 
to  see.  The  Church  of  Our  Lady  towered  over  old 
JNIunich,  symbol  of  the  warm  South-German  heart. 
Immediately  to  the  north  rose  that  "mount  of  mar- 
ble" the  New  Rathaus,  a,  reminder  of  Milan  cathe- 
dral, in  its  dazzling,  restless  opulence,  and  with  a 
touch  of  the  theatrical  manner  seen  beside  the  quiet 
comeliness  and  reserve  of  the  Old  Rathaus.  Beyond, 
the  Pitti-like  fa9ade  of  the  palace  stood  out  against 
the  soft  leagues  of  the  English  Garden.  Eastward 
the  Maximilianeum's  perforated  front  reposed  like  a 
well-kept  ruin  amid  the  luxuriance  of  its  waterside 
park.  The  Isar,  itself  invisible,  made  a  bright  zone 
of  green  through  the  city ;  and  in  the  south,  crowning 
and  glorifying  the  whole  scene,  the  snow  glistened  on 
the  far  peaks  of  the  Bavarian  Highlands. 

A  party  of  students  had  come  up,  and  were  gazing 

with  affectionate  eyes  on  their  city.     Quite  without 

warning  they  burst  into  a  song  which  I  shall  always 

associate  with  that  tower  and  its  glorious  panorama: 

16  341 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

So  lang  die  griine  Isar  durch  d'  Miinchnerstadt  noch  gcht 
So  lang  der  alte  Peter  auf  'm  Peter's-Platz  noch  steht, 
So  lang  dort  unt'  am  Platzl  noch  steht  das  Hofbrauhaus, 
So  lang  stirbt  die  Gemiitlichkeit  in  Munchen  gar  net  aus. 

Freely  rendered : 

So  long  as  through  our  Munich  the  Isar  rushes  green, 
So  long  as  on  St.  Peter's  Place  Old  Peter  still  is  seen, 
So  long  as  in  the  Platzl  the  Court-brew  shall  men  nourish. 
So  long  the  glowing,  kindly  heart  of  Munich-town   shall 
flourish. 


342 


XI 

AUGSBURG 

MONG  the  romantic  cities  of  southern 
Germany  there  are  few  more  striking  con- 
trasts than  Augsburg  and  Rothenburg. 
The  former  is  a  proud,  patrician  place, 
once  the  host  of  emperors  and  the  home  of 
famous  financiers.  It  spreads  out  on  a  level  plain  its 
monumental  streets,  its  palaces,  its  great  public 
buildings  and  churches. 

The  other  is  a  city  of  dreams  crowning  a  fair  hill ; 
a  quiet  plebeian  town,  the  tower-studded  ring-wall  of 
which  has  preserved  more  jealously  than  any  other 
city  wall  the  aspect  and  the  atmosphere  of  old  Ger- 
many. 

Just  as  one  pauses  at  Goslar  to  modulate  one's 
journey  from  the  Harz  to  Hildesheim,  so,  in  coming 
from  the  morning  brilliance  of  nineteenth-century 
Munich,  it  is  well  to  pause  at  Augsburg,  where  ro- 
mance and  brilliance  are  blent  as  in  some  sunset  sky, 
before  climbing  from  the  valley  of  the  Tauber  to  the 

343 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

hill-crest  that  is  comparable  only  to  those  cloud-cities 
we  sometimes  discover  when  the  moon  rides  high  on 
a  spring  evening. 

When,  with  this  idea  of  modulation,  I  last  stopped 
at  Augsburg,  it  was  not  to  hunt  up  the  scores  of  fas- 
cinating tombs  and  altars  in  the  churches,  or  to  visit 
the  old  German  painters  in  the  gallery,  or  to  study 
the  style  of  Elias  HoU's  architecture,  or  to  make  the 
rounds  of  all  the  interesting  old  houses.  I  wished  to 
catch  again  the  unique  feeling  of  the  place — the  at- 
mosphere of  proud  Italian  opulence  that  made  its 
highways  a  fit  resort  for  princes,  combined  with  the 
native  Old- World  glamour  of  its  intimate,  homely 
byways. 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  I  sought  the  cathedral, 
a  building  too  old,  on  the  whole,  to  participate  archi- 
tecturally in  Augsburg's  grand  manner.  At  the  Diet 
of  1530,  the  famous  Augsburg  Confession  was  pre- 
sented to  the  Emperor  in  the  episcopal  palace  oppo- 
site. And  legend  relates  that  Martin  Luther,  fleeing 
from  one  of  these  diets  after  dark,  in  fear  of  his  life, 
lost  his  way  in  the  St.  Gallus-Gasschen,  whereupon 
the  devil  came  and  pointed  out  a  little  gate  in  the  city 
wall,  with  the  words,  "Da  hinab."  ("Down  there.") 
The  Reformer  went,  and  found  a  saddled  ass  and  a 
servant  to  help  along  his  flight.     The  evil  one  de- 

3U 


THE  NORTH  PORTAL  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL 


AUGSBURG 

parted  chuckling,  feeling  that  he  had  done  a  deed 
worthy  of  his  reputation.  And  the  place  is  called 
Dakinah  to  this  day. 

The  cathedral  nave  was  crowded  with  rapt  wor- 
shipers. I  stood  near  the  four  altarpieces  painted 
by  that  famous  Augsburger,  the  elder  Holbein ;  and 
looking  from  them  to  the  rows  of  earnest  faces,  I 
realized  that  these  conservative  people  had  not 
changed  even  the  type  of  their  features  for  over  four 
hundred  years. 

Here  were  anachronistic  costumes  as  well — peas- 
ant women  with  limp  black  head-dresses,  gay  neck- 
erchiefs of  white  and  rose  and  yellow,  flaming  short 
skirts  of  blue,  pleasantly  overlaid  with  buff  aprons. 
And  there  were  short -jacketed  Holbein  men  who 
wore  odd  silver  coins  for  buttons. 

Orchestra,  organ,  and  choir  made  sonorous  music 
in  the  Gothic  balcony.  The  officiating  clergy  showed 
splendid  in  their  gold  and  silver  vestments  against 
the  sculptures  and  the  delicate  pinnacles  of  the  high 
altar.  The  priceless  old  stained  glass  of  the  clear- 
story painted  the  sunlight,  and  the  great  windows 
of  the  southern  aisle  sang  a  psalm  of  ultramarine  and 
emerald  and  old  gold.  Despite  its  modest  architec- 
ture, the  nave  took  on  a  splendor  that  Sunday  morn- 
ing like  the  splendor  of  Amiens.  It  was  the  authen- 
tic spirit  of  old  Augsburg  making  itself  felt. 

347 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

I  paid  a  visit  to  the  cloisters,  with  their  wealth  of 
tombs  and  quaint  Latin.  A  goodly  wash  was  spread 
out  to  dry  on  the  lawn,  tempting  my  companion  into 
a  pale  pun  about  the  "cathedral  close."  And  far 
above  them  was  another  sight  almost  as  homely — the 
north  steeple,  with  its  crude,  tiny  Romanesque 
arches. 

The  ancient  bronze  doors  of  the  southern  portal 
remind  one  of  Bishop  Bernward's  epoch-making 
doors  at  Hildesheim,  only  these  are  more  delicate  and 
sophisticated,  and  have  less  of  the  elemental  thrill. 

The  most  imposing  part  of  the  cathedral  architec- 
ture is  the  northern  portal;  and  here  the  South-Ger- 
man's Gemiltlichkeit  and  love  of  animals  are  charm- 
ingly displayed.  Surrounded  by  an  attentive 
company  of  prophets  and  sibyls,  the  jFZ'i^rr^o/^  is  lolling 
carelessly  on  a  throne,  with  a  sword  between  his  legs, 
listening  to  King  David,  who  is  playing  on  a  harp. 
All  seem  to  be  getting  the  greatest  pleasure  from  the 
music.  Below,  a  lot  of  baby  bears  are  trying  to  push 
one  another  off  a  molding  above  naive  reliefs  of  the 
Annunciation,  The  Death  of  the  Virgin,  and  the  Na- 
tivity, the  last  a  scene  at  which  little  donkeys  peep 
edified  over  the  rim  of  a  wicker  basket.  Above  them 
all  are  three  gargoyles  which,  though  suffering  the 
most  violent  pangs  of  some  indeterminate  complaint, 
are  yet  as  lovable  as  the  guffawing  crocodile  near  the 
other  portal. 

348 


AUGSBURG 

In  the  Fish  Market,  after  church,  I  found  another 
commentary  on  Augsburg's  love  of  animals.  One 
side  was  lined  with  rabbits  peeping  out  of  boxes,  per- 
ambulators, and  baskets  like  the  donkeys  on  the  por- 
tal; two  sides  were  taken  up  with  birds  and  puppies 
— the  salesmen  seeming  really  loath  to  part  with  them 
— while  in  the  middle  was  a  host  of  dogs  in  leash. 
About  the  only  creature  not  on  sale  in  that  Fish 
Market  was  the  fish.  But  there  was  no  snarling  or 
fighting,  for  the  menagerie  seemed  as  full  of  Gemiit- 
lichkeit  as  its  owners.  Peace  on  earth,  good  will 
toward  man  and  beast,  was  the  order  of  the  day. 

On  a  wall  near  by  was  a  curious  relief  of  a  one- 
armed  man.  A  question  to  a  vender  of  puppies  drew 
about  us  a  beaming  circle  of  citizens,  who  listened 
proudly  \vhile  the  tale  of  the  siege  was  retold.  It  was 
in  1635,  when  the  Swedes  had  reduced  the  town  to 
the  point  of  starvation,  that  the  immortal  baker  took 
his  last  loaf,  climbed  up  on  the  parapet  during  a 
charge,  and  threw  it  to  the  enemy,  declaring  that 
Augsburg  had  more  bread  than  it  could  eat.  The 
baker  lost  his  arm  up  there  on  the  walls,  but  the 
Swedes  lost  heart,  and  in  disgust  raised  the  siege. 

This  part  of  town,  however,  never  long  beguiles 
one  away  from  its  splendors  with  such  homely  things 
as  puppies  and  bakers.  Near  by  I  discovered  a 
stately  campanile  and  the  fa9ade  of  a  great  Renais- 

351 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

sance  building  so  imposingly  Italian  that  it  seemed 
less  natural  to  call  it  the  Rathaus  than  the  municipio. 
And  within  was  a  room,  the  Golden  Hall,  able  to 
compare  with  many  of  Italy's  most  opulent  interiors. 
This  Rathaus  typifies  the  formal,  splendor-loving 
side  of  Augsburg,  and  is  the  worthy  center  of  a  city 
three  of  whose  daughters  married  princes.  One  is 
reminded  of  the  remark  of  Emperor  Charles  V,  after 
having  seen  the  royal  treasures  of  France:  "I  have  a 
weaver  in  Augsburg  named  Fugger  who  could  pay 
spot  cash  for  all  this."  The  building  bisects  that  old 
Roman  road,  now,  as  then,  the  main  highway  through 
the  town,  formed  by  the  Karolinen-Strasse  and 
Maximilians- Strasse,  a  broad,  proud  way  lined  with 
stately  palaces.  Among  them  shines  forth  the  fres- 
coed house  of  the  Fuggers,  those  Rothschilds  of  the 
Renaissance,  to  remind  one  of  an  age  when  most  of 
Augsburg's  walls  were  gay  with  color,  and  when 
many  of  its  interiors  could  vie  with  those  of  Italy's 
royal  palaces.  In  those  days  a  merchant  named 
Welser,  whose  daughter  had  married  the  Archduke 
of  Austria,  fitted  out  a  squadron  single-handed  to 
take  possession  of  Venezuela.  And  one  of  the 
Fuggers  is  said  to  have  taken  a  note  of  hand  for  a 
large  sum  and  burned  it  on  a  fire  of  cinnamon  wood 
before  the  eyes  of  his  debtor,  Charles  V.     The  old 

352 


AUGSBURG 

Augsburgers  always  did  things  handsomely.  It  is 
pleasant  to  remember  that  Emperor  Maximilian  I, 
on  leaving  his  favorite  city  near  the  close  of  his  life, 
turned  in  the  saddle  for  a  last  look  and  exclaimed: 
"Now  God  preserve  thee,  thou  dear  Augsburg !  We 
have  had  many  a  good  time  within  thy  walls.  Now 
we  shall  behold  thee  nevermore." 

The  Maximilians-Strasse  is  broader  than  any 
other  street  in  Old-World  Germany,  and  its  Italian 
atmosphere  is  intensified  by  the  splendid  fountains 
that  punctuate  it,  which  are  surrounded  by  ara- 
besques of  the  ironwork  for  which  Augsburg  is  fa- 
mous. 

One  of  these  fountains,  the  Augustus,  commemo- 
rates the  German  emperor  who  founded  the  city,  and 
after  whom  it  was  named  Augusta  Vindelicorum. 
But  the  Fountain  of  Hercules,  down  near  the  Fug- 
ger  House,  in  its  eloquent  power  and  grace  and 
humor,  has  never  been  equaled  in  Germany,  though 
its  influence  may  be  seen  to-day  from  Danzig  all  the 
way  down  to  Munich. 

While  the  imposing,  public  side  of  Augsburg  is 
strongly  Italian  in  quality,  the  intimate,  romantic 
side  is  quite  as  German;  and  it  was  good  to  feel  the 
sudden  change  in  the  Church  of  St.  Ulrich.  This 
church  is  supposed  to  occupy  the  site  of  the  ancient 

353 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Roman  capitol,  and  there  were  excavated  here  those 
huge  stone  pine-cones  which  became  the  symbols  of 
the  municipahty. 

A  confirmation  service  was  going  on.  The  piers 
and  aisles  were  decorated  with  white  birch  saplings 
that  looked  very  friendly  and  human  against  the  ele- 
gance of  the  large  altars,  and  reminded  one  that  he 
was  in  the  land  of  the  Christmas-tree  and  that  sort  of 
thing.  As  I  entered,  a  group  of  little  children,  in  all 
their  touching  German  artlessness,  was  moving  out 
in  front  of  the  congregation.  The  vast  throng  stood 
for  some  moments  in  a  profound  silence,  then  sud- 
denly burst  into  the  most  beautiful  congregational 
singing  that  I  have  ever  heard. 

It  was  a  fitting  introduction  to  romantic  Augs- 
burg, and  I  went  away  finally,  to  wander  in  a  sort  of 
day-dream  among  the  maze  of  little  brooks  and 
canals  that  make  the  southeastern  quarter  so  pictur- 
esque, where  the  dwellers  in  fascinating  old  cottages 
have  had  to  bridge  a  merry  little  river  to  get  to  their 
own  flower-gardens.  Here  Augsburg's  greatest  son, 
the  younger  Holbein,  was  born,  and  a  wall  is  still 
there,  covered  with  the  colored  arabesques  that  he 
drew  in  his  sixth  year.  There  was  the  quaint  little 
Fuggerei,  a  town  within  a  town,  which  one  of  the 
Fuggers  built  to  house  the  local  poor  on  condition 
that  they  pay  a  gulden  a  year  as  rent,  and  daily  offer 

354 


AUGSBURG 

up  to  heaven  "a  paternoster,  an  Ave  Maria,  and  a 
credo,  for  the  help  and  comfort"  of  all  Fugger  souls. 

The  best  came  last ;  for  as  I  turned  into  the  Jako- 
ber-Strasse,  there  was  spread  out  such  a  vision  of 
Old- World  Germany  as  I  had  not  dreamed  of  find- 
ing in  Augsburg,  the  portal  of  Italy.  An  unbroken 
array  of  old  houses  swung  down  into  the  distance, 
with  gables  lofty  and  low,  sharp  and  blunt,  severe  as 
a  pyramid,  or  undulating  like  a  maiden's  curls,  glow- 
ing with  all  the  colors  of  the  sunset,  full  of  shapely 
windows  and  flowering  balconies  and  wooden  saints 
enshrined,  set  off  against  the  richly  weathered  walls 
and  ruddy  tiles  of  a  huge  tanner's  tower;  and,  with 
their  perfect  rhythm,  leading  the  eye  down  to  where 
a  Gothic  gate  closed  the  prospect  with  the  mellow 
masonry  of  its  arches  and  the  vivid  green  patina  of 
its  pointed  tower. 

The  ideal  place  to  take  one's  leave  of  Augsburg  is 
beside  the  crumbling  ramparts  where,  deep  under- 
foot, the  shattered  marbles  of  the  Roman  city  lie; 
where  grasses  clothe  the  venerable  defenses  of  medi- 
eval daj^s;  and  where  beautiful  old  wall-towers,  re- 
flected from  the  surface  of  a  stream  once  lapped  by 
the  wild  horses  of  the  Huns,  dimly  foreshadow  the 
glories  the  traveler  is  so  soon  to  taste — the  glories  of 
a  city  that  is  set  upon  a  hill  above  the  Tauber. 


357 


XII 
THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 

S  the  small  railway-carriage  crept  along, 
with-  frequent  stops,  it  began  to  fill  with 
old-fashioned  men,  quaintly  dressed,  who 
uncovered  and  made  courteous  inclinations 
to  all  present.  Every  one  began  to  say, 
"God  greet  thee!"  to  every  one  else. 

Last  of  all  came  a  small,  wizen  figure  in  a  low, 
round,  black  peasant's  hat,  abbreviated  pantaloons 
of  buff,  and  a  short  jacket  trimmed  with  a  double 
row  of  large  stone  buttons.  He  was  simple,  genial, 
very  ancient,  and  in  his  thin  white  locks  and  kindly 
wrinkles  he  would  have  made  Diirer  surpass  his  por- 
trait of  Holzschuher.  More  than  once  afterward  I 
met  him  within  his  native  walls,  and  his  well-pre- 
served beauty  came  to  be  for  me  a  living  symbol  of 
the  place  itself. 

The  Rothenburger  still  keeps  his  conservative  re- 
sentment toward  such  a  crass  new  invention  as  the 
railway.    It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  when  the 

358 


THE  MAKKUS  TOWER 


THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 

hateful  thing  had  to  come,  he  hid  the  station  half  a 
mile  from  his  walls. 

After  a  discouraging  walk  between  modern  build- 
ings, I  came  finally  to  a  round  arch  flanked  by  squat 
towers,  passed  over  a  water-filled  moat,  the  very 
scum  of  which  was  more  beautiful  than  ordinary 
scum,  through  a  humpy  gate-house,  over  another 
bridge,  under  a  lofty,  square  tower  inlaid  with  coats 
of  arms,  and  found  myself  at  length  in  the  City  of 
Dreams,  so  complicated  is  the  approach  to  that  en- 
chanted spot. 

Nichts  gleicht  an  deutschom  Zauber 
Dir  Stadt  im  Tal  der  Tauber 

sang  the  poet — 

(No  other  German  magic  may  avail 
To  match  thine  own,  town  of  the  Tauber-dale)  — 

and  once  inside  the  Roder  Gate  it  is  evident  that  he 
sang  true. 

Right  and  left  run  the  old  city  walls,  and  at  a 
glance  one  knows  that  he  is  in  the  presence  of  a  Ger- 
man Carcassonne.  These  walls  are  of  gray  stone, 
tinged  with  brown,  and  covered  with  a  sloping  roof 
of  crumbling,  orange-red  tiles.  Along  the  inside, 
supported  by  rude  corbels  and  engaged  buttresses, 
and  raftered  with  low,  worm-eaten  beams,  runs  a 

361 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

gallery  where  one  may  walk  ( stooping  a  little,  if  one 
is  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  tall)  nearly  around  the  en- 
tire city. 

A  few  steps  toward  the  center  of  things,  and  down 
the  curve  of  a  fascinating  street,  just  beyond  an  old 
fountain  and  some  particularly  rustic-looking,  vine- 
clad,  half-timbered  dwellings,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
another  arch  spanning  the  way,  crowned  with  a 
clock-steeple,  and  marking  the  course  of  the  original 
ring-wall. 

Behind  it  rose  the  wonderful,  saddle-backed  Mar- 
kus  Tower,  bearing  that  most  intimate  symbol  of 
Old- World  Germany,  a  wheel  for  a  stork's  nest. 
And,  like  so  many  more  of  Rothenburg's  choicest 
pictures,  this  one  was  closed  by  the  lofty,  distant 
tower  of  the  Rathaus. 

To  one  who  has  never  known  Nuremberg,  such  a 
scene  strongly  recalls  what  he  has  imagined  Nurem- 
berg must  be  like.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  this  is  a 
purer  bit  of  Germany's  most  precious  past  than  any 
that  remains  to  us  in  t-he  metropolis  of  Middle  Fran- 
conia;  although  it  is  true  that-  in  the  Renaissance 
Nuremberg  surpassed  Rothenburg  in  the  matter  of 
beauty  as  much  as  Rothenburg  surpasses  Nurem- 
berg to-day.  As  I  lingered  here  in  the  Roder-Gasse, 
unconsciously  humming  fragments  of  "Die  Meister- 
singer"  and  dreaming  of  the  vanished  days  when  all 

362 


THE  KATHAUS  i:CITY  HAUL).  THE  OEUER  I'ART  HAVING  THE  TOWER 


THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 

men  were  artists  and  all  artists  were  men,  a  charming 
adventure  came  my  way.  For  I  happened  suddenly 
upon  a  brother  german  of  Hans  Sachs  cobbling 
away  under  a  gable  inscribed  thus : 

Im  Hause  meiner  Vater 

Klopf  ich  allhier  das  Leder, 

Und  mache  meinen  Reim  dazu, 

Ich  sorge  nicht  wer's  nach  mir  thu'. 

(Here  in  the  house  of  my  paters 
I  hammer  and  hammer  on  leather, 
And  thread  my  rhymes  together. 
Careless  of  imitators.) 

A  few  steps  farther,  and  the  market-place  glided 
into  view. 

I  shall  always  remember  the  first  glimpse  of  that 
forum  where  the  different  architectural  styles  har- 
monize as  perfectly  as  the  fusion  of  the  Old  Rathaus 
and  the  New,  a  combination  in  which  the  romantic 
Gothic  has  tried  to  smooth  itself  out  and  compass  an 
approach  to  austerity,  while  the  classical  Renaissance 
has  bedizened  itself  into  romance  with  pinnacles  and 
little  dormer  windows,  with  a  decorative  corner  oriel, 
a  stair-tower,  and  a  perfectly  proportioned,  flower- 
ing colonnade. 

In  the  center  is  the  Herterich  Fountain,  a  tenderly 
wrought,  poetic  thing,  as  fit  to  be  the  center  of  the 

365 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

City  of  Dreams  as  the  imposing  fountains  of  Augs- 
burg are  fit  to  adorn  the  monumental  street  wherein 
stands  the  palace  of  the  Fuggers.  From  the  stone 
basin,  carved  with  splendid  grotesques,  rises  a  pillar 
in  gray  and  gold,  bearing  a  figure  of  St.  George 
lancing  a  dragon — the  dragon  Thirst,  no  doubt,  for 
in  the  museum  hard  by  is  still  to  be  seen  the  huge 
tankard  which  Burgomaster  Nusch  drained  at  a 
draught  to  save  the  lives  of  the  town  councilors  from 
the  infuriated  Tilly.  But  I  am  not  rehearsing  the 
famous  story  of  the  Meistertrunk,  for  two  reasons. 
In  the  first  place,  it  has  already  been  told  a  thousand 
times.  In  the  second  place,  it  was  probably  manu- 
factured out  of  whole  cloth  in  the  eighteenth  century. 

Next  door  to  the  museum,  on  the  Apotheke,  a 
charming  oriel  window  with  a  green-and-red-tiled 
roof  serves  as  background  for  the  fountain  and  as 
baldachin  for  an  old  saint. 

Happy  is  he  who  is  allowed  to  visit  the  courtyard 
behind  this  Apotheke,  where  the  Rathaus  tower  peers 
down  upon  its  riot  of  roofs,  its  ivied  walls,  and  its 
latticed  gallery,  reminiscent  of  the  best  courtyard 
galleries  in  Nuremberg. 

From  all  sides  of  the  market-place  run  alluring 
streets  and  alleys  which,  taking  a  line  from  the  bogus 
instruments  of  torture  in  the  Straf  Tower,  pull  one 
in  seven  different  directions  at  once. 

866 


COURT  Ol-'  Tlllv   A1'()TI11:KE 


THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 

The  Herren-Gasse  pulled  me  the  hardest,  a  street 
running  to  the  site  of  the  red  castle  that  gave  Roth- 
enburg  its  name  and  was  destroyed  by  a  fourteenth- 
century  earthquake.  Here  the  patricians  lived,  and 
the  way  is  lined  with  courtly  houses,  many  of  them 
Gothic.  In  the  Herren-Gasse  I  found  a  number  of 
well-preserved  interiors,  with  good  old  paneled  ceil- 
ings and  stucco-work.  In  front  were  interesting 
portals  with  sculptured  coats  of  arms,  and  in  the 
rear,  idyllic  little  courts  or  wooded  gardens.  Nimi- 
ber  2  proved  to  be  a  medieval  bake-shop,  and  near 
by  was  a  time-honored  wine-house  with  separate 
rooms  for  patrician  and  plebeian. 

Behind  a  lofty  "stepped"*  gable  some  one  was 
playing  a  rondo  by  Mozart  on  a  spinet-like  piano, 
and  the  eighteenth-century  music  sounded  as  radical 
in  that  older  atmosphere  as  would  a  Debussy  tone- 
poem  heard  in  the  baroque  quarter  of  Leipsic. 

Beneath  the  Castle  Gate,  over  a  bridge,  and  be- 
tween friendly,  dunce-capped  gate-houses,  the  way 
led  Into  a  small  paradise  of  a  park  on  a  spur  jutting 
into  the  valley;  and  here  I  first  began  to  feel* the  fas- 
cination of  Rothenburg  as  a  whole.  Northward  there 
was  a  splendid  view  of  the  western  wall,  brought  out 
the  more  strikingly,  with  its  towers  and  bastions,  by 
the  foliage  of  the  hillside  below.  Eastward  Rothen- 
burg built  itself  massively  up  about  the  Rathaus  and 

369 

17 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

the  Church  of  St.  James.  From  where  I  stood  the 
wall  swept  inward  in  a  magnificent  semicircle  toward 
a  southern  pendant  of  the  town,  sown  full  of  idyllic 
towers,  and  called  the  Kappenzipfel,  or  Cap-Tassel. 
This  curious  name  was  invented  by  Emperor  Al- 
brecht.  The  citizens  had  long  teased  him  for  per- 
mission to  include  the  rich  Hospital  of  the  Holy 
Ghost  within  the  walls.  "Well,"  he  cried  at  last, 
"since  your  town  looks  already  so  much  like  a  night- 
cap, you  may  as  well  make  this  the  tassel." 

Deep  in  the  valley  below,  the  Tauber  wound  under 
its  double  bridge,  which  showed  up  in  the  distance 
like  a  fragment  of  Roman  aqueduct.  I  thought  of 
the  company  of  crusaders  who  once  rode  down  the 
zigzag  hillside  path  and  across  that  bridge,  bound  to 
redeem  the  Holy  Sepulcher ;  and  of  the  innumerable 
bands  of  pilgrims  the  olden  times  had  seen  winding 
up  that  hill  toward  the  city  that  more  than  all  others 
resembled,  and  still  resembles,  Jerusalem,  to  adore 
the  drop  of  the  Saviour's  blood  treasured  in  St. 
James's. 

The  Tauber  sparkled  on,  past  the  tiny  castle  of  the 
celebrated  Burgomaster  Toppler,  with  its  moat  and 
two-arched  bridge;  past  the  delightful  old  mill, 
creaking  and  groaning  among  its  poplars;  toward 
the  Romanesque  church  and  the  wonderful  lime-tree 
of  Detwang,  that  gem  of  a  hamlet  which  Vernon  Lee 
selfishly  wished  to  conceal  from  the  world. 

370 


PORTAL  OF  THE  OLD  RATHAl'S 


THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 

An  old  woman  sat  down  on  a  bench  near  by,  and, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  gave  me  a  hearty  salutation. 
She  had  lived  in  Rothenburg  for  seventy  years,  and 
it  had  hardly  changed,  except  that  more  strangers 
came  all  the  while  to  enjoy  it. 

Frau  Weller  invited  me  into  her  home,  a  minute, 
vine-smothered  affair  in  the  Herren-Gasse,  quite 
overpowered  by  its  aristocratic  neighbors.  I  had 
begun  to  hope  that  she  would  bring  out  my  old  man 
of  the  train  and  present  him  as  her  husband.  But, 
alas !  it  developed  that  she  was  a  widow  and  alone  in 
the  world. 

"Ja,  da  lebt  rnan  halt  bis  man  stirbt"  ("Yes,  one 
just  lives  here  till  one  dies") ,  she  said  simply. 

The  tiny  rooms  had  timbered  ceilings  and  furni- 
ture of  the  Biedermeyer  period.  Frau  Weller's 
greatest  pride  and  joy  was  a  porcelain  clock  with 
weights,  and  she  brought  out  all  the  pathetic  bright 
handkerchiefs  of  her  youth  to  show  me.  Up  doubtful 
stairs,  almost  too  narrow  for  any  but  very  frail  hu- 
manity, I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  fascinating  attic 
full  of  fagots  and  rich  gloom,  with  holes  in  the  tiled 
roof  through  which  soft  white  clouds  were  visible, 
sailing  in  the  bluest  of  heavens. 

Old  Frau  Weller  and  I  plighted  our  friendship  on 
the  spot,  and  I  shall  never  again  see  the  neighborly 

373 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

nose  and  chin  of  Judy  without  remembering  mine 
hostess  of  Rothenburg  and  her  sweet  simpHcity. 

With  much  pride  she  introduced  her  cat. 

"She  is  a  direct  descendant  of  the  famous  Kdtz- 
chen  of  Vorbach.  What!  Hast  never  heard  tell  of 
her?  Well,  it  was  this  way:  many  years  before  I  was 
born  there  was  a  plague  of  rats  and  mice  in  this 
neighborhood,  and  never  a  cat  to  be  found.  Finally 
the  two  hamlets  of  Vorbach  and  Detwang  clubbed 
together  and  bought  a  cat  from  a  peddler  for  two 
pounds  of  coppers.  She  was  rented  out  by  the  day 
all  over  this  neighborhood.  That  cat  had  so  many 
opportunities  that  she  knew  not  which  way  to  turn. 
And  to  this  day,  if  any  one  seems  especially  hurried 
and  flurried,  we  tell  him,  'You  're  as  busy  as  the 
Kdtzchen  of  Vorbach.'  " 

Past  the  Church  of  the  Franciscans,  with  its  deli- 
cate Gothic  spire  and  its  wealth  of  interesting  sculp- 
tures and  inscriptions,  I  returned  to  visit  the  court- 
yard between  the  Old  Rathaus  and  the  New.  There 
are  great  round  arches  upholding  a  goodly  half-tim- 
bered fa9ade.  But  its  principal  treasure  is  the  cele- 
brated Renaissance  portal.  With  its  carvings  in 
stone  and  mellow  wood,  and  the  old  Putzenscheiben 
lantern  still  hanging  over  the  steps,  the  portal  seems 
to  offer  such  promise  of  wonders  within  as  no  Ger- 
man Rathaus  could  fulfil,  not  even  this  one,  with  its 

374 


THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 

fine  Kaisersaal,  where  the  M eistertrunh  i^lay  is  per- 
formed every  year,  and  with  its  ghastly  underground 
torture-chamber  and  dungeons  where  Burgomaster 
Topler  met  his  death. 

Near  by,  in  the  sleepy  Kapellen-Platz,  I  found  a 
fountain — a  sort  of  step-brother  to  the  one  in  the 
market-place — flashing  away  in  front  of  a  fa9ade 
full  of  half -timber  work  as  gracefully  patterned  as 
the  choicest  lattice-galleries  of  the  courtyards.  And 
it  was  a  peculiar  pleasure  to  discover  an  inscription 
facing  this  fountain  that  told  of  the  time  when  Roth- 
enburg  awoke  to  the  conscious  enjoyment  of  her  own 
beauty : 

Der  alten  Kunst  gar  lang  versteckt, 
Hab'  ich  hier  wieder  aufgedeckt, 
Dass  sie  nun  lacht  in  neuer  Pracht 
Und  mir  und  andern  Freude  macht. 

(The  art  of  old,  so  long  concealed, 
I  've  in  such  wise  again  revealed 
That  splendors  new  smile  into  view 
To  gladden  me  and  others  too. ) 

The  White  Tower,  a  souvenir  like  the  Roder  Arch 
of  the  original  ring-wall,  is  happily  framed  from  the 
town  side  by  the  Georgen-Gasse ;  and  the  low  arch- 
way, with  the  tower  stairs  creeping  above  it,  reveals 
the  distant  Wiirzburg  Gate,  with  its  background  of 
foliage. 

375 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

Outside,  near  the  Crown  Tavern's  curious  relief  of 
a  girl  feeding  a  stag  with  a  spoon,  one  may  best  see 
how  perfectly  the  venerable  fortification  melts  into  the 
street  picture.  The  "White"  Tower  is  slate-colored, 
brown,  blue,  gray,  dusky  red,  and  a  roof  falls  sheer 
away  from  it  with  bright  patches  of  red  down  to  a 
captivating  corner  oriel.  This  building,  with  its  bit 
of  walled  garden,  was  once  the  Jewish  dance-house. 
Old  Jewish  baths  are  still  to  be  seen  in  the  cellars. 

From  the  Wiirzburg  Gate,  as  from  so  many  of  the 
others,  there  looks  down  a  stone  face,  probably  the 
portrait  of  a  would-be  traitor ;  and  inside  of  the  arch- 
way a  mysterious  profile  is  roughly  chiseled — a  pro- 
file about  which  one  hears  all  sorts  of  contradictory 
reports. 

This  northern  part  of  the  town  wall  is  the  best  pre- 
served, for  it  was  built  according  to  the  theories  of 
Vitruvius,  and  is  the  foremost  example  of  its  kind. 
On  its  broad  top  the  maidens  dance  after  the  festival 
play.  Here  my  friends,  two  young  American  paint- 
ers, once  gave  their  memorable  Fourth  of  July  cele- 
bration, and,  after  the  fireworks,  were  carried  home 
on  the  shoulders  of  the  delighted  inhabitants,  an 
event  that  will  doubtless  be  talked  of  in  Rothenburg 
for  generations. 

I  walked  to  the  Klingen  Gate  along  the  gallery. 
This  passage  has  never  been  much  used  except  for 

376 


FOUNTAIN  IN  THU  KAI'EI.I.EN-PLATZ 


THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 

defense,  but  its  deeply  worn  pavement  is  eloquent  of 
the  town's  martial  history.  I  found  it  the  haunt  of 
rope-makers,  with  hemp  flying  from  their  girdles  and 
lodged  in  their  flaxen  whiskers.  Many  of  the  loop- 
holes were  walled  up,  but  through  the  open  ones  I 
caught  rare  little  vignettes  of  flowering  moat  and  a 
pleasant  countryside  in  bloom. 

The  Klingen  Gate,  with  its  side  turrets,  rivals  the 
Stoberlein  Tower,  with  its  corner  ones,  for  the  dis- 
tinction of  being  Rothenburg's  most  beautiful  tower. 
From  the  wall  here  a  dark  stairway  winds  down  into 
the  little  Church  of  the  Shepherds. 

Some  centuries  ago  the  local  Jews  were  believed  to 
have  conspired  to  poison  the  fountains,  murder  the 
watch,  and  make  Rothenburg  in  very  deed  into  a  new 
Jerusalem.  But  the  shepherds  of  the  neighborhood 
discovered  and  published  the  plot.  As  a  reward,  they 
were  allowed,  until  late  in  the  eighteenth  century,  to 
hold  an  annual  festival  in  honor  of  this  event.  It 
began  with  a  service  in  the  little  church,  was  contin- 
ued, crescendo,  at  the  Lamb  Tavern,  and  ended  in  a 
hilarious  dance  about  the  Herterich  Fountain,  in 
which  any  burgher  who  joined  the  dance  was  incon- 
tinently doused. 

I  found  a  delicate  oriel  with  PutzenscJieihen  at  the 
corner  of  the  Klingen-Gasse  and  the  Cloister  Court. 
The  venerable  cloister  building  had  been  turned  into 

379 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

public  offices,  but  an  obliging  official  showed  me  that 
rare  sight,  a  genuine  medieval  kitchen,  and  the  finely 
vaulted  refectory  above,  from  the  window  of  which 
could  be  seen,  on  a  distant  hill,  the  ruins  of  a  robber 
castle  beyond  the  border  in  Wiirttemberg. 

The  Klingen-Gasse  leads  through  a  gloomy  arch- 
way under  the  Church  of  St.  James.  It  is  a  fit  set- 
ting for  the  legend  of  The  Poor  Soul  of  Rothenburg. 
In  olden  days  the  burghers  did  not  believe  much  in 
the  devil,  which  angered  that  personage.  Once  upon 
a  time  when  a  peasant  was  passing  under  this  arch- 
way the  devil  caught  him  suddenly  and  hurled  him 
against  the  vaulting  with  great  force.  The  poor 
body  fell  down  again  at  once,  but  the  poor  soul  re- 
mained sticking  to  the  stones.  You  may  see  it  there 
to-day.  "It  is  sort  of  brown,"  writes  the  chron- 
icler, "with  black  spots." 

On  the  southern  roof  of  the  church  is  a  reclining 
figure  which  recalls  another  legend.  In  building  the 
two  towers  the  architect  let  his  pupil  try  his  hand  at 
one  of  them.  And  when  he  saw  how  much  his  pupil's 
tower  outshone  his,  he  leaped  to  his  death  from  the 
scaffolding.  The  pupil  then  carved  his  master's  por- 
trait on  the  roof. 

The  architecture  of  the  interior  is  rather  more  cold 
and  austere  than  one  would  expect  of  Rothenburg's 
principal  church ;  but  there  is  a  compensatory  richness 

380 


i 


THE  KI,1N'GEX-GATE  TOWER 


THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 

of  imagination  in  the  altars  by  Herlin  and  Riemen- 
schneider  and  in  the  blaze  of  color  that  pours  through 
the  fifteenth-century  windows.  Here  also  is  a  touch 
of  that  naivete  which  is  so  enjoyable  in  the  local 
house  inscriptions.  For  the  eastern  windows  repre- 
sent the  Fall  of  the  Manna  as  a  rain  of  South-Ger- 
man rolls  and  pretzels. 

Of  all  the  alluring  ways  beckoning  out  of  the  mar- 
ket-place, one  of  the  most  alluring  to  me  was  the 
Schmied-Gasse,  with  its  view  of  that  notable  Renais- 
sance dwelling,  the  Architect's  House.  The  caryatids 
between  the  windows  with  their  reminiscence  of  the 
Erechtheimi,  and  the  stately  portal  and  gable,  bring 
out  vividly  the  classical  dignity  and  poise  of  the 
period,  while  the  courtyard  is  teeming  with  Rothen- 
burg's  unique  charm.  There  you  may  loll  at  tables 
made  of  old  millstones,  with  moss  and  flowers  grow- 
ing from  the  hole  in  the  center,  and  sip  your  coffee 
from  earthenware  cups  of  the  quaint  local  pattern. 
That  is  the  place  to  loaf  and  invite  your  soul  while 
vaguely  enjoying  the  carved  shields  and  window- 
frames,  the  iridescent  window-panes,  the  colons  and 
patterns  of  the  half -timber  work,  and  the  red  gal- 
leries smothered  in  flowers.  As  you  sip  and  dream, 
you  begin  to  wonder  whether  it  is  not  all  too  good  to 
be  true ;  whether  the  curtain  will  not  suddenly  clatter 
down  on  this  astonishing  stage  and  the  orchestra  be- 

^«  383 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

gin  to  scrape  and  toot,  for  your  sins,  the  popular  rag- 
time of  the  moment. 

A  few  steps  southward,  between  the  upper  and 
lower  Schmied-Gassen,  I  stumbled  on  a  curious 
fountain,  a  mossy  shaft  capped  by  a  hybrid  figure 
with  the  head  of  a  Gothic  Christus  and  the  tail  of  a 
merman. 

The  lower  Schmied-Gasse  ends  Am  Plonlein, 
where  the  road  hesitates  and  grows  charmingly  con- 
fused between  the  rival  seductions  of  two  gate- 
towers.  It  finally  compromises  by  forking  down 
crookedly  on  the  one  hand  to  the  Cobolzeller  Gate, 
and  running  up  on  the  other  hand  to  the  Siebers 
Tower,  which  bears  above  a  Romanesque  arch  just 
the  proper  touch  of  color  in  a  sky-blue  clock.  Above 
the  Gothic  arch  on  the  other  side  I  made  out  a  stone 
traitor  staring  blindly  down  the  Cap-Tassel;  and, 
in  delightful  contrast  to  him,  the  bright  face  of  a 
young  girl  with  a  halo  of  flying  flaxen  hair  peeping 
out  of  the  embrasure  above. 

The  Cobolzeller  archway  framed  a  scene  of  the 
purest  beauty,  which  came  to  typify  romantic  Ger- 
many to  me  as  much  as  any  one  scene  could.  On  the 
left  rose  the  town  wall,  clothed  with  vines  in  all  the 
colors  of  early  autumn.  On  the  right  an  arm  of  wall 
swept  around,  with  the  rich,  deep  tones  of  its  wooden 
gallery,  into  the  ruddy  roof  of  a  porter's  lodge  that 

384 


AM  PLONLHIN— SIEBERS  GAT1-:  AT  THE  LEFT  AND  Ct UtOI.ZELLER  GATE  AT  THE   RIGHT 


THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 

nestled  at  the  foot  of  a  mighty,  square  tower.  Above 
its  roof  was  visible  the  onward  sweeping  rhythm  of 
wall  and  tower,  and,  through  the  porter's  archway,  a 
glimpse  of  hillside  foliage. 

Mounted  on  corbels  in  the  courtyard  was  a  half- 
effaced  stone  relief  equally  suggestive  of  a  Roman 
sacrificial  procession  and  of  an  early  Gothic  pro- 
cession to  Calvary,  so  much  can  Nature  do  toward 
leveling  religious  differences.  It  came  to  me  how 
Cobel,  the  neighboring  hermit  for  whom  the  gate 
was  named,  would  have  been  scandalized  at  such 
an  ambiguity. 

I  walked  outside  the  wall  to  look  through  the  arch 
of  the  Lime  Tower  and  see  how  majestically  the  city 
composed  itself  from  there;  then  went  within  for  a 
few  moments  beside  the  huge  mill  where  two-and- 
thirty  horses  used  to  grind  Rothenburg's  grain  in 
time  of  siege. 

Then  on  to  the  hospital  inclosure,  with  its  crowd  of 
quaint  buildings  and  its  rustic  atmosphere.  Near  a 
fragment  of  pond  the  pointed  Hegereiter  House 
squatted  like  some  mysterious  but  kindly  gnome,  as 
though  caricaturing  the  beautiful  Stoberlein  Tower 
hard  by. 

The  Spital  Gate  with  its  involved  complex  of 
courts  and  towers  and  bastions  seemed  the  most 
elaborate  of  the  outworks  of  Rothenburg.     Anti- 

387 


ROMANTIC  GERMANY 

quated  cannon  still  looked  through  the  loopholes,  as 
though  to  confirai  the  legend  on  the  keystone  of  the 
outermost  arch: 

Pax  intrantibus, 
Salus  exeiintibus. 

(Peace  to  the  entering, 
Safety  to  the  departing.) 

I  had  long  heard  of  the  glories  of  the  "red  city" 
seen  toward  dusk  from  the  heights  across  the  Tauber, 
when  the  flaming  west  made  the  roofs  and  tile- 
capped  towers  glow  like  a  sunlit  beaker  of  ruby  wine. 
And  each  afternoon  I  had  taken  my  way  across  the 
double  bridge  and  past  the  old  heathen  place  of  sacri- 
fice to  the  hillside  opposite,  hoping  for  perfect 
weather.  But  though  the  sky,  during  my  stay, 
steadfastly  refused  to  "blossom  in  purple  and  red," 
I  had  the  chance  to  see  how  well  Rothenburg  could 
endure  the  ordeal  of  a  colorless  sunset. 

The  distant  city  made  exactly  the  setting  one 
would  desire  as  the  background  for  the  most  roman- 
tic story  in  the  world.  And  I  recalled  with  pleasure 
a  passage  from  the  memoirs  of  Ludwig  Richter,  that 
pioneer  of  romanticism:  "Touring  through  Bavaria, 
I  discovered  a  town  which  made  one  exclaim:  'This 
looks  as  if  it  had  been  designed  by  Ludwig  Richter.'  " 
Here,  for  once,  reality  had  equaled  the  most  radiant 

388 


THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 

work  of  the  imagination.  The  dozens  of  distant  tow- 
ers stood  out  in  Hvely  contrast  to  one  another  over 
the  mellow,  ruddy  city  that  sat  its  hill  with  a  gra- 
cious, genial  air  far  removed  from  the  frightened 
way  that  little  Italian  towns  cling  to  their  heights — 
towns  which  Carducci  once  compared  to  flocks  of 
mountain  goats  terrified  by  wolves.  Against  the 
light  background  of  the  western  wall  a  line  of  regu- 
larly shaped  trees  gave  the  effect  of  a  Gothic  colon- 
nade. 

All  about  me  was  peace.  It  was  the  season  of  the 
hay  harvest.  I  could  not  see  the  laborers  beyond  the 
western  ridge — only  the  forks  of  green  grass  that 
came  tossing  rhythmically  up  over  the  sky-line.  A 
sickle  of  moon  stood  over  the  wain,  and  I  could  hear 
the  harvest  song. 

One  after  one  the  far-away  steeples  rang  out  the 
hour  of  eight.  And,  as  the  sounds  came  floating 
across  the  valley,  mingled  with  the  low,  delicate 
color-harmony  of  Rothenburg,  I  was  glad  that  Na- 
ture had  not  seen  fit  to  paint  the  rose. 


889 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Albrechtsburg  Castle,  Meissen,  363, 

267-270 
Arthurian  legends,  10 
Augsburg: 

Atmosphere  of  Italian  opulence, 
344 

Cathedral,  344 

Church  of  St.  Ulrich,  353 

Fountain  of  Hercules,  influence  in 
Germany,  353 

Fuggers,  the,  352 

Holbein's  birthplace,  354 

Old  houses,  357 

One-armed  man.  Story  of,  351 

Rathaus,  353 

Babelsberg  Castle,  102,  103 
Barbarossa,  189 

Beethoven,  Klinger's  statue  of,  257 
Berlin : 

Administration  of  mimicipal  af- 
fairs, 92 

Architecture,  42,  46,  53,  62,  74, 
79,  89 

Brandenburg  Gate,  40,  43,  53 

Castle,  53,  54,  55,  58 

Castle  Bridge,  49 

Cathedral,  54,  57,  60,  61,  62 

Characteristics   and   manners   of 
people,  80-92 

Charlottenburg  Castle,  79,  82 

Churches,   71,  73 

City  an  embodiment  of  Hohen- 
zoUern  character,  42 

Climate  and  character  of  people, 
95 

Colimin  of  Victory,  74 

Elector's  Bridge  and  statue,  54, 
55 

Fountain  of  Neptune,  43 

Frederick  Bridge,  60,  61 


Berlin:  (Continued) 

Fried rich-Strasse,  79 

Gendarmen  Markt,  73 

Heine  and  Hoffmann  tablets,  73 

Historical  notes,  66,  67,  93 

Janowitz  Bridge,  70 

Kaiser  Friedrich  Museum,  64 

Krogl,  its  romantic  atmosphere, 
68,  87 

Landwehr  Canal,  97 

Latin  Quarter,  72 

Leipziger-Strasse,  73 

Lustgarten,  50 

Military  Museimi,  49 

Mottos,  53 

Museums  and  the  genius  of  Dr. 
Bode,  62,  63,  64 

Musical  riches,  48 

Napoleon's   hat  in  museum,  49 

National  Gallery,  61,  63 

New  Museum,  63 

Old   Museum,  50,  51,  63 

Opera-house,  48 

Parks,  78,  79 

Pergamon  Museum,  64 

Pictures,  42,  49,  58,  64,  65 

Reichstag,  74,  75 

Royal  Theater,  48 

Sieges-Allee,  77 

Spree,  The,  66,  71 

Statues,  42,  45,  49,  50,  53,  54,  63, 
64,  66,  74,  77,  78 

Tiergarten,  78,  82 

Unter  den  Linden,  45 

Virchow  Hospital,  47 

Wilhelm-Strasse,  74 

Zeughaus,  49 

Zoological  Garden,  79 
Berlin  University,  47 
Bismarck  monuments,  77 
Bismarck's  wit,  84 


393 


INDEX 


Brunswick: 

American  history,  153 
Architecture,  151,  154,  157,  159, 

166,  173,  175,  176 
Beliefs  and  customs,  145 
Bell-houses,  176,  179 
Burg-Platz,  The,  154 
Carvings,  158 
Cathedral,  169 

Characteristics  of  people,  143 
Churches,  169,  170,  173,  175 
Compared  with  other  cities,  179, 

180 
Courts,  160,  168 
Democratic  spirit,  151,  152 
Fountain  of  Henry  the  Lion,  172 
Fountain  of  Tyll  Eulenspiegel,  141 
Gothic  houses,  157 
Henry  the  Lion,  166,  169,  172 
Historical  notes,  153 
Name,   Change  in,  151 
Old  town  market,  150 
Pictures,  165 
Squares,  163 
Stone  rooms,  160 
Street  plan,  157 
Superstitions,    145 
Tyll  Eulenspiegel,  Town  of,  141 

Ceiling,    Painted    wooden,    Hildes- 

heim,  211 
Charlottenburg  Castle,  79,  82 
Charlottenhof   Castle,   130 
Christ   Pillar   at   Hildesheim,   205, 

211 

Dante  and  cloister-school,  Meissen, 

267 
Danzig : 

Architecture,  4,  14,  18,  20,  24 
Arthurian  legends,  10 
Church  of  St.  Mary,  8,  24-31 
Court  of  King  Arthur,  10,  11 
Crane  Gate,  unique  landmark,  4, 

5,  32 
Dwellings,  13,  18,  20 
Fish  market,  35,  37 
Fortifications,  Ancient,  8 
Granaries,  31,  33 
Green  Bridge,  4 
High  Gate,  8 
Historical  notes,  9,  10,  11,  17,  19, 

32,  33,  34 


Danzig:  (^Continued) 

Jopen-Gasse,  finest   street   vista, 
23 

Langgasser  Gate,  8,  9 

Long  Bridge,  33 

Milk-can  Gate,  4 

Mottos  over  doors,  19 

Napoleon's  cannon-balls,  25,  31 

Navy,  German,  33 

Pictures,  9,  12,  26,  27 

Poggenpfuhl,  22,  23 

Poland's  protection,  10,  17,  19,32 

Porches,  Stone,  20 

Port  of  Poland,  32 

Badaune,  31,  37 

Rathaus   interior,   9 

Rathaus  steeple,  3,  4,  7,  9,  22,  38 

Sack-carriers,  Haunt  of,  37 

St.  Catharine's  Church,  31 

St.  John's  Church,  30,  31,  34 

St.  Peter's  Church,  22,  31 

Shakspere  and  "A  Winter's 
Tale,"  32 

Steffen  House,  Italian  palace,  18 

Stock  Tower,  8,  16 

Streets,  Character  of,  23 

Swan,  The,  34,  35 

Teutonic  Order  of  Knights,  10, 
17,  34 

Torture  Chamber,  8 

Venice  of  the  North,  7,  14 
Doors,  Bronze,  Hildesheim  Cathe- 
dral, 205,  211 
Dresden : 

Augustus  Bridge,  275,  292 

Briihl  Terrace,  297 

Castle,  288-291 

Characteristics  of  the  Dresdener, 
293 

Church  of  the  Cross,  280 

Church  of  Our  Lady,  275 

City  of  Pleasure,  279 

Fairs,  274 

Florence  of  the  Elbe,  285 

F'rederick  Augustus  the  Strong,283 

Gallery    of    paintings    finest    in 
Germany,  284-288 

Historical  museum,  297 

Historical  notes,  279 

Humor  of,  292 

Name,  Origin  of,  279 

Roj^al  porcelain  collection,  298 

Zwinger,  The,  283 


394 


INDEX 


Dresden  Gallery,  284-288 
Emperor.     See  William  II. 

Faustus,  Doctor,  240,  244 

Frederick    Augustus    the    Strong, 
283 

Frederick     William,     The     Great 
Elector,  51,  57 

Frederick  William  I,  Castle  of,  at 
Potsdam,  106-114 

Frederick  the  Great: 

Beside    tlie    coffin   of   the   Great 

Elector,  57 
Castle  at  Potsdam,  110,  111 
Coldness  and  reserve,  84 
Last  daj-s  of,  129 
Napoleon  at  tomb  of,  57,  115 
Portrait  as  a  child,  42 
Rauch's  monument  in  Berlin,  45 
Ruins  built  at  Potsdam,  136,  137 
Statue  of,  in  his  last  days,  129 
Tomb  at  Potsdam,  115 

Frederick  William   III: 

Friendship  with  Alexander  1, 115 
Garden  of  roses.  Famous,  101 
Statue  of,  in  Berlin,  50 

Glienicke  Castle,  101 
Goethe : 

Altarpieces    of    Cranach    discov- 
ered by,  238 
Auerbach's  Cellar  in  Leipsic  and 
Doctor  Faustus,  240,  243 
Goslar: 

Barbarossa,  189 
Brusttuch,  194,  195 
Clus,  a  grotto  chapel,  196 
Heart  of  Henrv  III  in  chapel  of 

St.  Ulrich,  189 
Henry  IV  and  his  castles,  186 
Kaiserhaus,  oldest  secular  build- 
ing in  Germanv,  186 
Legend  of  the  "Blood-bath,"  191 
Name,  Origin  of,  192 
Remains  of  saints  and  apostles, 

189 
St.  Ulrich's  chapel,  189 
Zwinger,  old  tower,  192 

Henry  III,  Heart  of,  at  Goslar,  189 
Henrv  IV  and  his  castles  at  Gos- 
lar, 186 


Henrv   the   Lion,   Brunswick,   166, 
169,  172 

Hildesheim: 
Altar  by  Fra  Angelico,  207 
Architecture,  217,  223,  226-235 
Bronze  doors,  205,  211 
Butchers'  gildhouse,  225 
Cathedral,  201,  203 
Cathedral  cloisters,  203 
Cathedral  cupola.  Story  of,  207 
Christ  Pillar,  205,  211 
Church  of  the  Cross,  213 
Comparison  with  Brunswick,  199, 

213 
Houses,  Noteworthy,  226-235 
I-egends,  200,  214,  218 
Little  Princess,  Storj'  of,  218 
Magdalene  Church,  212 
Maid  of  Hildesheim,  214,  235 
Old  German  House,  215,  223 
Origin,  Legend  of,  200 
Pillar  House,  228,  229 
Roland  Hospital,  230 
St.  Godehard's  Church,  212 
St.  ^Michael's  Church,  208,  209 
Thousand-year  rose-bush,  201,203 
Turn-again  Tower,  235 
Wedekind  House,  224 

Hohenzollerns: 

Berlin  characteristic  of  stern 

qualities  of,  40 
Characteristics,  47,  53,  78,  84,  91 
Face,  Tj-pical,  41 
Historical  note,  106 
Music,  L"'nderstanding  of,  48 
Potsdam, playground  of  the  H.,  100 

Humboldt's  Cosmos  written  at 
Charlottenhof,  Potsdam,  133 

Isar  Valley,  324 

Leipsic: 

Architecture,  private  baroque,244 

Auerbach's  Cellar,  240 

Bach,  249,  250 

Beethoven,  257 

Characteristics  of  people,  252-254 

Conservatory,  Creation  of,  250 

Fairs,  254 

Gewandhaus  Orchestra,  250 

Goethe,  238,  240,  244,  245 

Xaundorfchen,  258 

Origin,  261 


395 


INDEX 


Leipsic:  (Continued) 
Pleisseiiburg,  251 
Princes'  House,  237 
Publishing  center  of  Germany, 257 
St.  Matthew,  Church  of,  246 
St.  Nicholas,  Church  of,  238 
St.  Thomas,  Church  of,  249 
Streets  with  quaint  names,  236 
Supreme  Court  building,  252 
Wagner's  birthplace,  245 

Leipsic    University,    Founding   of, 
268 

Lessing: 

Legend  concerning,  147 
Princes'  School  at  Meissen,  267 

Luther,    Martin,    Legend   concern- 
ing, 344 

Marlenburg,  mightiest  of  German 

castles,  10 
Meissen : 

Albrechtsburg  Castle,   263,  267- 
270 

Ascent  of  Souls,  267 

Church  of  St.  Afra,  267 

Gellert    and    Lessing    and    the 
Princes'  School,  267 
Meissen  porcelain  invented  in  Dres- 
den by  Bottger,  284 
Munich : 

Beer,  313,  314 

Butchers'  Leap,  333 

Center  of  arts  and  crafts  move- 
ment, 313 

Characteristics    of    people,    306- 
309,  321,  322,  324 

Churches,  323-328 

City's  symbol,  314 

Coopers'  Dance,  333 

Dult,  a  biennial  rag-fair,  313 

Festival  in  October,  309 

Galleries,  301,  302 

Gemutlichkeit  of  Munich,  307 

Legends,  324,  327,  331-333 

Miinchener's  love  of  nature,  305 

Name,  Origin  of,  328 

National  Museum,  302 

Palace,  316-321 

Panorama  of  city,  341 

Prophecy  of  Ludwig  I,  300 

Streets,  Characteristic,  322 

Wittelsbachs,  Devotion  of  people 
to,  315 


Napoleon: 

Cannon-balls,  Danzig,  25,  31 
Hat  in  Berlin  Museum,  49 
Visit  to  tomb  of  Frederick  the 
Great,  57,  115 
Navy,  German,  birth  at  mouth  of 

the  Mottlau,  33 
Nymphenburg,  337 

Peacock  Island,  101 
Pergamon  Museum,  Berlin,  64 
Porcelain  collection,   Royal,  Dres- 
den, 298 
Potsdam: 

Approach  to,  101 

Architecture,  106,  116 

Babelsberg  Castle,  102,  103 

Charlottenhof  Castle,  130 

Church  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  105 

Church  of  Peace,  119 

Cloisters,  119 

Dutch  quarter,  105 

Frederick  the  Great's  tomb,  115 

Gardens  of  Sans  Souci,  120,  121 

Glienicke  Castle,  101 

Historical  notes,  105,  106,  129 

Legend,  106,  129 

Marble  Palace,  102,  103 

Military  life,  114 

Mill,  Legend  concerning,  129, 131 

New  Palace,  133,  134 

Old  Potsdam,  107 

Pictures,  109,  128,  129,  134 

Ruins    built    by    Frederick    the 
Great,  136,  137 

Sans  Souci,  123,  126,  136 

Town  Castle,  106-114 
Prussian,  Meaning  of  word,  91 
Prussian  Versailles:  Potsdam,  100 

Reichstag,  74,  75 

Rose-bush,  Thousand-year,  at  Hil- 

desheim,  201,  203 
Rothenburg: 

Architect's  House,  383 

Cap-Tassel,  370 

Castle  Gate,  369 

Cat  of  Vorbach,  Story  of,  374 

Church  of  St.  James,  380 

City  of  dreams,  358 

Cobolzeller  Gate,  384 

Comparison  with  Nuremberg,  362 

Courtyard  of  the  Rathaus,  374 


396 


INDEX 


Rothenburg:  (Continued) 

Hegereiter  House,  387 

Herren-Gasse,  369 

Herterich  Fountain,  365 

Klingen  Gate,  376 

Legends,  380 

Lime  Tower,  387 

Market-place,  365 

Markus  Tower,  362 

Resemblance  to  Jerusalem,  370 

Schmied-Gasse,  383 

Siebers  Tower,  384 

Spital  Gate,  387 

Wall  of  the  city,  361,  376 

White  Tower,  375,  376 

Wurzburg  Gate,  376 
Russo-German    Alliance,    Founda- 
tion of,  laid  at  Potsdam,  116 

Sans  Souci  at  Potsdam,  133, 126, 136 
Schleissheim  Castle,  337 
Shakspere  and  "A  Winter's  Tale," 
Danzig,  32 


Sistine  Madonna  in  Dresden  Gal- 
lery, 285,  286 

Stained  glass.  Some  of  oldest,  in 
existence,  190 

Teutonic  Order  of  Knights,  10, 17^4 
Tj'U  Eulenspiegel,  Brxmswick,  the 
town  of,  141 

Venice  of  the  North,  Danzig,  7,  14 
Voltaire's  apartment,  designs  by 
Frederick  the  Great,  128 

Wagner,  Richard,  house  in  which 
he  was  born,  245 

William  the  One-eyed,  268 

William  I,  Begas  monument  in 
Berlin,  50,  51 

William  II: 

Architectural  taste,  62 
Devotion  of  people,  41,  95 
Face,  Character  of,  41 
Sieges-A116e  of  Berlin,  77 


397 


Date  Due 


,    UC  SOiJTHi  p;  ^itG.Or.AL  LiBRARy  FACILITY 

AA       001339  243        6 


Library  Bureau  Cat.   No.   1137 


^3i 


'<<-^'%?g 


■'•'  "1  -  A 


